


The Manhunt

by DatAsymptote



Category: Ever After High
Genre: Gen, no seriously this is very much an OC fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatAsymptote/pseuds/DatAsymptote
Summary: "People don't like talking about the past. They prefer repeating it."Bastion Fanfarinet, nephew of Fanfarinet in the Princess Mayblossom, fears the future. He was supposed to follow the path of his villainous uncle, until that destiny had been taken away from him. To him, there is nothing more terrifying than the new unknowability of his life.But the events of the future are determined by the present, which in turn are determined by the past. A past, when queried, is met with swift topic changes and nervous side-eyed glancing.His scientifically-minded acquaintance, Airmid Valerian, the next physician in Godfather Death, insists that gaps in knowledge are merely a derisive challenge. Strive to push the edge of uncertainty, they say. Strive to better yourself in the process.No one likes to talk about the previous Ambassador Fanfarinet, and the last Death's physician – Airmid's predecessor – has been practically vapourised from all records.With no adult there to offer guidance, the two decide to take matters in their own hands. The plan? Journey through France and Germany, and hunt down whatever little information there is about the two men.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally published](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/The_Manhunt) on the EverAfterHighFandom Wikia.
> 
> Featuring my OCs [Bastion Fanfarinet](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/Bastion_Fanfarinet) and [Airmid Valerian](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/Airmid_Valerian), who you can read more about in the hyperlinks on their names.

History is contained within you.

In every cell, there’s DNA. That’s representative of your genetic history. It’s a record of the ages – of loss, of gain, of irreplaceable mistakes and an extraordinary amount of luck. Generation through generation, it’s passed down, slightly altered, but inevitably, when trapped in short bursts of time, it is fundamentally the same.

Not unlike the legacies of Ever After High.

* * *

"Logically, it wouldn't work,” Bastion Fanfarinet capped the writeboard marker back to its lid. "A waste of funding, a waste of effort and a waste of time.” He spun around the writeboard, revealing drawings of cute little bar and pie graphs, and neatly bulleted lists.

“Listen–” Airmid leaned forward in their chair.

The next physician of Godfather Death was a practical guy, with sleeves rolled up and a constant fixated look of determination. Unfortunately, practicality and a love for stunts of reckless abandon were not mutually exclusive. Particularly if a certain reckless stunt meant further knowledge.

“I would risk a couple of bad grades for some knowledge about my predecessors. Who wouldn’t?”

“Someone who actually cares about their future,” Bas shot back.

“But my future’s sorted! It’s the past that eludes me, Fanfarinet.  _That’s_  what I've been searching for.”

When every retelling of Godfather Death concluded, Death would erase any mementos or accounts of the previous physician. With all physical evidence gone, the physician would eventually be forgotten from known memory, with only vague doubts that he even existed. Airmid Valerian had dreamt of the day they could go down in history, but how could people remember a guy with nothing to remember them by? They were earnest to break this cycle, desperate to be the one physician to survive.

“Aren’t you torn with curiosity?” Airmid continued. “There’s a trove of undiscovered facts and knowledge out there. Not just of my predecessor, yours too!"

“This is ridiculous,” Bastion slammed the whiteboard pen against the board with enough force that the lid fell off, quite uneventfully, to the ground. “This is– I cannot believe you are making me consider this idea."

As the nephew of the previous Ambassador Fanfarinet, Bastion was expected to follow in his uncle’s footsteps. Run away with a princess to an island, be a source of distress, and eventually get killed by her. The only part Bastion looked forward to was the ending.

“Aren’t you sick of Ever After High, Bastion?”

He had wanted to say, ‘who isn’t?’. Who wouldn’t be sick of Ever After – sick of being forced to follow a destiny, forced to go against your morals in every conceivable way, and forced to suffer marginalisation for it? But to question the ethics of this world was dangerous in itself. Raven Queen had done that, and destroyed everything.

Most importantly, she had destroyed the  _certainty_  of destiny.

It was a little known fact that Bastion Fanfarinet actually liked his story. Had he not been the heir to its villain, perhaps if legacy was a term nonexistent to him, he might have even cited the Princess Mayblossom as a favourite. There was purpose, there was morality, and there was self-defence in the face of total bastards. He respected that.

For the sake of the Princess Mayblossom told to the wider generation, for the sake of this tale reestablishing the once mighty position of Madame D’Aulnoy, Bastion Fanfarinet had once been willing to be begrudgingly dragged by a princess to an island and act like a total arse, simply for the success of the story.

Now, there was nothing to do, nothing to live for.

“I suppose there’s no actual point of me being here if we aren’t even going to follow destiny,” he said, finally.

“Then, why not get out of this place? Do your own thing. Be your own person. Punch Headmaster Grimm in the face. You are only young once!”

“Well, for one thing, I doubt you can obtain the Headmaster’s permission to let you go,” Bastion said. “He would never."

“You doubt?  _Never_?” Airmid Valerian’s voice was lined with steely determination. “In that case, I will prove it.”

* * *

“Airmid Valerian. Bastion Fanfarinet,” Headmaster Grimm sat at his desk. “Listen, I am aware that you both align with the Rebel movement. It strikes me curious as to why people such as you two express interest about your predecessors.”

“I don’t know sh–“ Airmid was about to say, then stopped themselves. “I don’t know anything about them. It’s a struggle, Grimm."

He sighed.

Every generation, same complaint.

It wasn’t like he could control Godfather Death. That reaper seemed to be in his own world – idealistic and daft, thinking that people’s lives were not predetermined but rather nurtured.

“The other physicians seemed to manage fine without that information.”

They didn’t. Grimm knew that well. Previous physicians would tear themselves apart, go extraordinary lengths for knowledge. They always sought to be better – nothing less than the best.

And in their failure, they would too succumb to the story’s end.

“Didn’t they all…  _die_?”

“Mx Valerian, that’s how the tale goes.”

“How morbid.  _Grimm_ , if you would."

As if he hadn’t heard that joke made metric tons before. Grimm rolled his eyes.

“On that note, listen. Godfather Death is one of your tales. And a fantastic one, at that. I just want to show my story – and those who carried it out spelltacularly – some appreciation, is that so bad?”

“And one should always greatly admire the works of Madame D’Aulnoy. It’s no secret that she paved the way to your success, Headmaster,” a small, self-assured smirk crept on the face of Bastion Fanfarinet. “After all, she did name us  _fairytales_."

Milton Grimm fidgeted in his seat. It was a cruel reminder. When Ever After High had been first founded, the stories of Madame D’Aulnoy filled the land. People knew of the Yellow Dwarf, or of the Princess Mayblossom. Snow White’s reign was puny in comparison to the grand French Royalty of the time.

He ignored Bastion Fanfarinet, and addressed the physician instead. “Mx Valerian, I do agree that Godfather Death is a rather interesting tale. It’s certainly a worthy part of my collection. Yet, I fear, by allowing you, you’ll be…”. Grimm waved a hand in thought.

“Trifling with Death? Oh, I’m aware of that,” Airmid shrugged. “Surely you have no qualms about it, right? After all, that’s what I’m supposed to do. I can take full responsibility for any damage I cause, trust me.”

“And doubtless, you’ll find this proposition very important to our own development as characters in our respective fairytales,” Bastion cut in. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again.

“Mr Fanfarinet,” Grimm said. “Is there a particular reason why you wish to develop as a character?"

“I am quite possibly the worst Fanfarinet to grace the respectable halls of Ever After.”

“Please do not deprecate yourself to appeal to your argument.”

“No deprecation intended. I am merely stating facts,” Bastion sighed. “You see, I lack many defining qualities–“

“Headmaster Grimm, surely you can’t deny our request!” Airmid almost flew out of their chair. “You are the one who consistently emphasises the importance of destiny, and I feel by going on this research adventure, we are preserving legacy and maintaining the prestige of our stories.”

The Headmaster shook his head. “Mx Valerian, I am in no way actively attempting to deny your… journey, adventure, thing. There are several elements at work. One of them being the case that you two may be unable to keep up with your studies…"

“Look, sir, we’re both reliable young gentlemen! Have you seen a more perfect record of straight A*s?”

“Mx Valerian, you do not have a record of straight A*s,” Grimm said. “If I recall your Crownculus grade from last semester correctly…”

“Okay, but that’s mathemagics, and when am I going to use that in real life?”

Milton Grimm looked at the two. Airmid Valerian sitting slouched in their chair, and Bastion Fanfarinet upright and uptight. Things really don’t change, he thought, his mind recalling a volatile physician and tense ambassador from a generation before.

“Otherwise, I see no problem. The rest of the students here could learn a lot from you two,” he frowned. “You have my permission."

“Spell yeah!” Airmid shot out of their seat. They looked ready to punch the air, but quickly saw the growing look of disapproval on Grimm’s face. “I mean, Headmaster Grimm, we will do you proud on this one-hundred-percent-purely-absolutely academic trip.”

“– don’t make me retract it.”

* * *

“I’ve learned something today,” Bastion said, as the two left the Headmaster’s office. “Never give Airmid Valerian an absolute statement, lest one wants it proven false.”

“Unless it’s the Second Law of Thermodynamics, one should rarely use ‘never’ and ‘always’,” Airmid grinned. “You need to embrace new possibilities, Bastion!”

“Airmid, you know me. I don’t waste my time throwing myself into efforts of reckless abandon,”

“You think this is reckless? We can literally take a trip across France and Germany for a fortnight, with little to no repercussions. If successful? We learn about our predecessors and what they’re like and use that to advance ourselves. If not, we got an excuse for a holiday.”

“We don’t need a holiday,” Bas replied irritability. “I have work to do.”

“As I have proven, you can easily catch up on aforementioned work. That said, maybe learning to take a break will make you less of a boring person.”

A break. That was exactly what Bastion did not need. He liked work. He liked being so busy that he never had time for himself. He liked being lost in such a regimented structured life, so he would seldom have to suffer alone with his thoughts.

“ _I won’t be a boring person for long_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bastion Fanfarinet did not like the feeling of regret.

Which, of course, was why he always sought out to live life with a plan. With conversations rehearsed in the shower, with an armada of small talk prepared in the event of social interaction, with cue cards in his blazer pockets.

A feeling of regret was gnawing on him right now. If only he hadn’t engaged in conversation with Airmid Valerian, and talking about predecessors, out of all things! Through that discussion, did Bastion briefly bring up how interesting it might be to find out something more outside the Storybook, to discover what information they had been denied.

He did not expect the future physician to come up with a spur of the moment idea – to trace their predecessors paths through Europe. On a trip. In an attempt to discover new information and to solidify their friendship.

Friendship?  _As if._

That was implying that Bastion Fanfarinet had friends.

No one tolerated him for very long. He remembered when he was younger, people were very good at excluding them from their conversation and groups. Even his childhood friend, Pythia Adalinda, grew distant from him during highschool, the two only talking during debate meetings now.

Perhaps, that had been for the best.

People at Ever After rarely did like to make friends with those born to die.  _You’ll get attached_ , they said.  _It’ll be tragic._

Being forced to follow a predetermined path was tragedy enough.

* * *

“This feels entirely unprecedented,” he said in attempt to talk Airmid out of the idea.

“You have such a lack of appreciation for uncertainty,” had been the physician’s reply. “But to accommodate you and for efficiency, I will make an itinerary! "

This sort of determination would be Airmid’s doom, Bastion realised.

He watched the physician pull a lighter out of their pocket. Airmid Valerian struck the metal gears, clung onto the button holder, and held the flame up to nothing in particular. They let go, then struck the metal gears again, and so the cycle continued.

It was oddly mesmerising – the flame flickering, dying, flickering, dying, flicke–

“An itinerary…” Bastion repeated. “Purely theoretical, I hope?"

Airmid stifled a snicker. “ _Theoretical_. Bastion, my man, you dismiss truth like a climate change denier."

"Like how a climate change denier does, you mean," Bastion corrected. "At least use proper grammar; it'll make you seem at most respectable."

"Semantics."

"This is grammar, not semantics! You're misrelating your clauses."

"If you have to make derisive remarks at my grammar, then you've already lost the argument."

"This was not an argument. Nor a debate, for the matter. That would require a degree of order and balance."

The flame of the lighter snapped out, and Airmid with it. "Bastion Fanfarinet, you sit on the fence between my respect and my disdain."

He spoke without thinking. "As if either of those are worth anything."

That off-handed comment – yet another evidence that speaking out-of-turn did not end well. Either he would end up forced on a friendship-building adventure, or he would have to suffer Airmid’s inevitable disappointment.

Bastion didn’t understand why the physician insisted on being amicable. Surely they had better things to do – research projects and papers or something.

“Must I really go with you?” he said. “Don’t you think I’ll be wasting your time?”

“If you think that way, then you’re wasting your life,” Airmid switched the lighter off, and threw it haphazardly into their pocket. “Not that you had much of one in the first place.”

Airmid respected Bastion – honestly. But to the physician, criticising him was perhaps the only way they could convince him to come with them.

“Bastion.” Airmid’s voice turned sharp and stern. There was a dramatic pause as the physician debated whether “you are pathetic” was a remark that would be suitable in a pep talk. “You are, uh– you inspire a mild and unfortunate level of pathos.” ( _You need to get a life_ , they mentally added). “You should probably reconsider every choice you have ever made.”

Harsh, Bastion thought, but did not flinch at Airmid’s words.

“Look, maybe some change is evident. Things rarely happen when one’s environment is stable.”

* * *

“So, I’ve got an ingenious idea.”

“Surely not another that would cause an explosion in the science labs again?”

“You have no faith in me!” Airmid said. “Look, I was thinking about Darling and Apple, like half of the school. Well, consider this. If destiny is real, then the world has gotten the wrong ‘prince’ for Snow White. The fact that this happened to literally the most famous fairytale in this world means that the possibility of this happening for other destinies is incredibly high.”

"Mm."

"It's not just an isolated incident! That Farrah girl -- she got promoted to Cedar's Blue Fairy, despite just being Cinderella's Fairy Godmother."

“Are you implying you’re not actually Death’s physician?”

“On the contrary. I’m implying that we can find you an alternative Ambassador Fanfarinet.”

“… what.”

“Two weeks, a wealth of databases and possibly the most brilliant pre-med student in the world. We’ve got this.”

Bastion bit his tongue. He dared not make a derisive comment about the sort of determination Airmid had. It would change nothing – except cause him to be more aware of his envy over the physician’s characteristics.

“And what precisely do you mean by two weeks?” he said instead.

Airmid looked at him as if he said the daftest thing. “Our trip. The one across Germany and France.”

“ _Theoretical_ ,”

“You lie.”

“No, I simply hope you're only speaking theoretically.”

“This conversation makes no sense to me,” Airmid Valerian shook their head, and sighed. “Look, we’re digressing. Your life sucks, and on the account of my brilliance, I think I can fix it.”

“You know, when something is utterly wrecked, it might be more logical to replace it, rather than fix it.”

“So you do agree!”

Bastion shook his head and took a step back. “What, no? I was simply making a sensible statement."

Without warning, Airmid continued with their stream of thoughts. “See, you’re the  _nephew_  of Ambassador Fanfarinet. The role is traditionally passed onto  _sons_. Yet, your uncle never claimed any.”

“Doubtless, he would have had some.”

“Exactly. We are going to hunt those kids down, and you’re going to give one of them your destiny.”

He looked doubtful. “Isn’t that rather forceful?”

“Isn’t that what the world did to us?”

_And we were on the side opposing that, Airmid!_  he wanted to say. “Don’t you actually enjoy your destiny?”

“What– what is that word you French say? Touché, isn’t it? Well, then, Bastion Fanfarinet, tou-fucking-ché."

He wanted to roll his eyes. He didn’t; Airmid Valerian was not worth the effort. “I don’t think we can understand each other.”

“Or are you unwilling to understand me?”

“I think I understand enough.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Hmm.”

The “hmm”ing continued for a good deal of time before the two realised it was getting them utterly nowhere.

“Nevertheless,” Airmid finally stopped ‘hmm’ing, “I still think my idea is ingenious.”

“Risky, though.”

“What is genius without risk? How does one seek knowledge without stepping outside their predetermined comfort zone? Do you think humanity advanced by spending their time staying in caves, painting mammoths all day?”

“Your point is compelling and your tone is disturbing."

Airmid Valerian paid no heed to Bastion’s comment. Instead, they looked slightly above the once-future ambassador’s head in what they thought to be a pensive gaze. “What are you scared of?”

The future. The possibility of everything he knew breaking down into pieces around him. The loss of the one certainty he had: his destined death.

Still, this was his one chance to potentially better himself. When else might another opportunity like this arise?

“Nothing."

* * *

“I am a genius,” Airmid had said. Without warning, they followed that phrase with the slamming of a briefcase right on top of a table.

“This is a library!”

“Doesn’t change the fact I’m a genius. Look.” With one swift motion, the physician opened up the case.

The equipment changed inside was too technological and specific for Bastion to even comprehend. He looked nervously at the contents, without a single clue whether it was safe or not, then looked nervously around, to check if the two weren’t going to get told on by the evil step-librarians.

Airmid Valerian seemed to care little for who was watching, or for Bas’ concerned facial expression. “Everything needed for PCR, gel electrophoresis, basically everything necessary to analyse short tandem repeats. Works at a rate of roughly one person per hour,” the physician was almost glowing with pride. “I had to bribe a few wizards to get that rate. This thing would work faster if I managed to incorporate fairy magic, but I feel wizardry is more stable.”

“That’s lovely, Airmid. But what is it?”

“A portable paternity test. It could also be used to analyse crime scenes. Of course, the former is more applicable in this situation.”

“Now, you can’t be serious about this, are you?” Bastion shook his head. “I meant it lightly. As a jab. As something…”

“Theoretical?”

“Theoretical.”

And with that, Airmid smiled, in that overconfident, self-aware way, the type mildly tinged with arrogance. “Let me tell you about theories. They don’t mean shit unless you can apply them.”

They paused.

“Or prove them. One or the other. I’m a scientist, not a philosopher of science, for Grimm’s sake.”

What assuredness they spoke with. Bastion hated that.

“Now, I need your Legacy Day outfit. No, that would have been cleaned, and any trace of DNA removed."

Bastion arched an eyebrow, and leaned back. That was the best thing one could do when Airmid Valerian started rambling. No point in interrupting, no point in asking any questions. It was simply best to listen to them speak, and try to keep up with their racing mind.

“Wait, what about Mayblossom’s knife? I know some people don’t clean their weaponry. There’s some pride you get from carrying around the blood of enemies, apparently.”

“That’s gross,”

“Well, it happens. The world is a terrifying place, Fanfarinet,” Airmid crossed off yet another item in their mental list. “Another common sample used in analysis is s– wait, upon reflection, I’ll rather not.”

Had this been The Office, Bastion Fanfarinet would have been looking into the camera right now. In the name of D’Aulnoy, he hated being reminded of this man, his crimes and his existence.

“Wait, new brilliant idea,” Airmid’s eyes widened. “Bastion, I must ask, how did your uncle deal with being a villain?”

“My mother told me he embraced it.”

“Brilliant. Okay, did he do anything villainous outside of his destiny? Something such as–“ Airmid gestured, trying to find a way to delicately word their thoughts, “Theft? Murder? Tax evasion?”

“Apologies, I have no clue.”

“What’s to say an investigation firm, or some forensic place, or the Police, even, don’t have a copy of his?”

He paused, and nodded in a mildly approving manner. “That’s… that’s actually quite a reasonable suggestion.”

“Thank you. Now, let me tell you about the time I accidentally set in the Che-myth-sy Lab on fire in Freedom Year and failed to impress [Griselle Damgaard](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/Griselle_Damgaard)."

At that, Bastion Fanfarinet simply and bluntly got up and left.


	3. Chapter 3

“I cannot believe you are taking such a lighthearted jocular remark so seriously,”

“‘Lighthearted jocular remark’ is eight syllables that can be fitted into one,” Airmid had replied. “But then again, you don’t know how to  _joke_.”

The physician had been fixated on the concept of the trip, almost non-stop talking about DNA sequencing and genetic patterns. It made Bastion feel guilty, with Airmid more invested in his legacy than he was.

So guilty, in fact, that he had been throwing himself in relentless work. Cover letters and spreadsheets and piles of neatly organised documents sorted into even neater folders was calmly. Everything predictable and organised. A sharp contrast to the turbulence of his own thoughts.

“Oh, I’m taking this seriously, alright,” Airmid had continued with their rambling. “Legacy and our predecessors  _built_  this world. The World of Ever After is founded on tradition. You know what people say: stand on the shoulders of giants, look further into the past so you can look further into the future. If we knew more about our predecessors, who they were, where they’ve been – we can be enlightened on who we are and what we are to do!”

Bastion didn’t want to tell Airmid he had blanked out for the second half of their rambling, so he nodded politely. “That is… very illuminating.”

The physician grinned a thanks.

To be fair, Bastion had nothing to do in his breaks. Debate was off-season, and he needed something other than reading depressing news articles on the lunchtimes when he wasn’t able to talk politics with Pythia. He never turned up to Dead Epics: the place was a mess and the pent-up anger of the room was highly distressing.

He swore he didn’t actually enjoy the concept of planning the trip, but with nothing to do, it was the only distraction. He hated himself for it. He hated that he was even considering the idea. He hated that he thought he had a way out of– whatever this was. Whatever Ever After and the constant threat of destiny meant to him.

* * *

It was surprisingly – almost painfully easy – to locate sources on the previous Fanfarinet’s wanderings.

Bastion heard enough anecdotes to know that right after graduation, Jacques Fanfarinet had spent the short gap between school and destiny  _partying_. He had been living it up across France, with the intention of “going out with a bang (or several)”.

(Author damn it, some people just had no shame.)

There were no Princestagram accounts or MirrorNet records back then, of course. No one would post their shenanigans on an easily accessible server.

Diaries and letters, however, had once definitely a thing.

He rung up the staff at home, asked if his mother had been sent any letters from her brother while he was on his “gap year”, telling them that he needed them for a school project – and please, not to disturb his mother, for she was too busy to be distracted by the schoolwork he could readily handle.

Through being his uncle’s current heir, Bastion located Jacques Fanfarinet’s medical records, though they made no sense to him. He emailed a copy to Airmid, who responded excitedly about Jacques’ “AB blood type”.

Crawling through some MirrorNet databases, he found some articles featuring his uncle, downloaded them and stored him on a server. Bas only glanced over them briefly. Hearing too much about that man always made him slightly sick in the stomach.

(He took four shots of espresso in one go, managed not to throw up in the nearest bathroom, and continued hunting.)

A few days later, Bastion Fanfarinet finally contacted people whom he knew, that knew people who knew people who knew slightly shadier people. He sent them an anonymous message asking if they were able to track illegitimate children of legacies, to which they sent an affirmation back. Once Bastion gathered all the details and evidence he found, the slightly shadier people fulfilled his request (after having enlisted the help of even shadier people).

The list was beyond impressive, roughly half a dozen names, with contact details – emails, MirrorPhone number, and the addresses of both their work and home.

Bastion Fanfarinet was too afraid to ask how the information was obtained. He didn’t even know whether it was correct. Luckily, Airmid’s briefcase would solve the issue of the latter. The former... well, that was done through not posing any questions and glancing in the opposite direction to any answers coming one’s way.

He made a sizeable donation to the slightly shadier people’s charity of choice. It was the least he could do.

The cities in which the six given people were from got plotted on a map of Europe, and lines were drawn up to determine the most efficient route.

Bas emailed that plotted map to Airmid.

He felt as if he was actually beginning to enjoy this idea – of travelling and self discovery–, and shoved that thought to the back of his head.

* * *

“I made an itinerary,” Airmid said, one day in Study Ball. “I skipped Ge-orge-fairy to do so.”

They handed him a piece of paper, clearly a mess of ballpoint pen scrawling over a cheap piece of lined paper. Bastion frowned at it, biting his tongue to stop any rude unsolicited remarks.

“It’s… lovely,” he said. “Terribly disorganised, though.”

Instead of going to Kingdom Mismanagement, Bastion went to the Li-fairy to rewrite the grimm-damn thing. Instead of lined paper, he pulled up a Hexcel sheet. Dissatisfied with mere bullet points of arranged activities, he added an hourly timetable. Then, he colour-coded it.

For a grand moment, he felt productive and organised.

That feeling soon dissipated when Bastion Fanfarinet realised he had forgotten to eat and needed to throw up.

* * *

“Bastion! My associate! Fellow person!” Airmid nearly crashed into him the next time the two shared a Study Ball. “How’s the planning going for our trip? Are you ready to potentially pull it off?"

“Oh, I thought this was purely theoretical,” Bastion said, as if he hadn’t been obsessing over the concept for weeks. “ _As if_  we could pull this off. Wouldn’t that be a thought?”

It was a thought, alright. One that dug at the back of your mind and disrupted any other ponderings. The thought was begging to him, desperate to come to fruition. Dare he say it, there was a part of him who wanted change.

No. He was 16, for D’Aulnoy’s sake. Not an ideal time to get a mid-life crisis.

(Though, with his neatly plotted and arranged five-year-plan, it would be more of a three-quarter-life crisis.)

“All the world’s great ideas started out as thoughts."

"I would not cite the trip as one of the world's great ideas."

"Perhaps not,” Airmid shrugged. "But it might be one of the few great things you'll ever do."

"Is that sass? Or a threat?"

"Bas, it is merely a simple statement!"

He blinked. “And may I say, all of the world's most  _terrible_  ideas also started out as thoughts.”

Still, Airmid Valerian was right. Their logic was a mess, and the banter exchanged with them made no sense. But there was something oddly compelling about the idea. It tugged at Bastion, drew him in.

The next words from his mouth frightened him. "Let's skip next week, and the week after. If we keep it waiting any longer, I'll change my mind."

* * *

To leave was surreal.

Ridiculously, utterly surreal.

There was a constant ache in Bastion’s stomach at the mere thought of this trip. Of course, that ache may have been due to Bastion skipping breakfast again to finish a report, but that suspicion was swiftly quelled when, after a quick bakery stop, the feeling remained.

Being so impulsive was terrifying. He had never once thought about jumping into the unknown without the safety net of destiny for buffering.

Instead, Bastion tried to avoid thinking about it – the risk, the impropriety. Such hastiness was not a trait of Bastion Fanfarinet.

He let out a sigh.

How in Ever After did he talk himself into this?

Airmid Valerian was at the lower steps of the main school building, suitcase already by their side. The physician was distracted on their phone, and didn’t look up until Bastion had called their name at least three times. Held by the hand without the phone, was the briefcase.

A funny thing it was, that briefcase. Airmid had scarcely let it out of their sight.

(“There’s something extraordinary about how far we’ve come,” they had said. “To think less than a century ago, people thought genes were inherited on  _proteins_ , and now we can sequence DNA in such a portable means! We can determine a person’s heritage and lineage through a box we can carry!”)

“Well,” Bas said. “Lead the way?"

* * *

And so, the two walked through BookEnd to the bus stop resting at the outskirts.

A lone bus tended to park there. Its pink exterior was lined with faux-gold edges; its surface a faded coral. For a brief moment, the bus and the scenery around it seemed far too bright, too artificial. One could have wondered why everything in this world had that insincere pastel tinge.

The two glanced at each other. Bastion politely gestured for Airmid to board first: an action not merely out of decorum, but also because Airmid actually knew how to use public transport.

At 10am, the bus was starkly empty. Airmid swiped their bus card twice, and gave a quick nod and salute to the bus driver.

Having boarded the bus near the back, Bastion pulled out a small pocket diary from his inner blazer pocket. His five-year plan, he called it, for the diary only contained enough pages for five years.

“So, to confirm,” he checked, “we’re taking the bus out of the Ever After to the nearest train station, where we should find a train to our first destination.” It was a reasonable plan: Airmid had thought of it, and Bastion had edited it until it was actually feasible.

Once the damned thing finally started moving, Airmid knelt up off their seat, turning to look back at BookEnd through the rearview window. “Are you– do you think you’ll miss school while we’re absent?”

“Would you?”

The physician shook their head. Ever After High no longer served a purpose for them – they already knew what to do to secure their destiny, and they could already outmatch the medical skills present in those hallowed walls.

“I doubt I would either,” Bastion said.

A half lie. Ever After High was certain. People told you exactly how to behave, and exactly what to say. There was none of that “find yourself” fairycrap. Not until recently.

Not until Raven Queen and her author-damn erasure of destiny.

“I think,” the physician said, in that voice that wanted everyone to listen, “that if you truly gave no shits about Ever After High, you would look back at the school with a scowl and raise your middle fingers at it."

Bastion shook his head. “That’s obscene."

“Does obscenity truly matter if no one sees you doing it?”

He forced a laugh at Airmid’s remark, and told them to dream on. But when their back was turned and eyes on their phone, Bastion Fanfarinet, in the most timid fashion, attempted a rude gesture at the castle.


	4. Chapter 4

When making their way through German streets, Airmid quietly hummed with glee. The atmosphere was homely, yet warming and inviting. Although they did not originate from this one particular city, Germany was home, and the physician had missed it.

“You realise Ever After High is located in Germany as well?” Bastion had asked them once.

“Yes, but Ever After High is Americanised. This is genuine! This is truly what it means to encompass a fairytalesque atmosphere!”

Indeed. Talking animals in little suits strutted about quite happily. A band of bards bellowed ballads. Third sons were getting shafted in their family inheritance by arrogant and entitled older brothers. Beautiful, heartwarming, and totally backwater.

Upon thought, it was not much different from Ever After.

“With any luck, we won’t run into my godfather,” Airmid said. “I checked the MirrorNet site for the Council of Grim Reapers. Apparently there’s a conference, so he’ll be away for a bit.”

“Where is this conference, might I ask?”

“The entrance of hell,” they frowned as they recalled. “In Iceland, I think.”

Parental figures. Bastion had avoided thinking about them. In fact, in the planning stages of this journey, he had purposely darted over them, with no clue how to cover up or explain his absence from school to them. It was a small risk – Bastion doubted that his parents cared about him enough to realise he’s gone, but it was a risk nevertheless.

How reckless, and how  _impulsive_.

When Airmid had brought up Godfather Death, Bastion felt a pit of regret in his stomach. He coughed back the sick feeling in his throat.

There were more important things to think of.

* * *

A mere carriage cab ride away was the castle from which the previous princess of Godfather Death had hailed from.

The gate had worn apart, and moss seemed to be climbing the exterior of the castle. A pair of lone guards stood outside, more fixated on stabbing their spears into the dirt rather than standing sentinel.

“Would you require a diplomatic voice?” Bastion asked, as the two neared the place.

“No, that would be too intimidating. Besides, I’m Airmid Valerian. Surely that’s enough,” Airmid said. “Wait outside."

They had to cough several times to get the guards’ attention. When Airmid asked for a request for an audience with the King and Queen, the guards responded with a dismal shrug. Unlocking the gates took the pair at least four tries to find the right keys, and they ushered Airmid in as if to say ‘please hurry up, we don’t have all day to do nothing’.

* * *

The two royals were seated on their thrones.

What a historical sight. Most royalty nowadays would do more than sitting – signing decrees, for one thing, and executing any people who rioted.

A quip passed through Airmid’s mind, something about encouraging the two to ‘take a stand'. Yet, the mood was far too solemn, and the physician unwillingly bit their tongue.

The two stared down at them, eyes judgmental and piercing.

“Who are you?” the Queen was the first to speak.

“My name is Airmid Valerian,” had they worn a hat, they would have taken it off. “I just want an audience with you two, to ask about the circumstances regarding the previous princess of the Godfather Death destiny.”

Once those words were spoken, the air in the room shifted and grew tense. A servant dropped a plate. It smashed on the tiled floor, the sound reverberating through the empty halls.

“I’m sorry, would you like me to repeat that?"

“No!” The King stood up, all eyes on him. It looked rather ridiculous. Airmid would had laughed, if the occasion had not been proper.

Instead, they awkwardly shuffled back a few steps.

“I know your type,” said the King. “I shall not make the same mistake with an arrogant fool like you."

Airmid opened their mouth, and closed it again. “What do you mean?"

“You’re Godfather Death’s physician. You– your kind killed my daughter.”

They tilted their head in a bemused fashion. “A physician can never exercise malevolence on a patient. It goes against our Hippocratic oath.” Hemlock might have been terrible – that was believable, but killing the princess? That was extreme.

“Your predecessor didn’t save my daughter like he was supposed to. He took one look at her, laughed, and said she was beyond saving.”

Asclepius Hemlock did not save his destined princess.

Asclepius Hemlock did not get his second strike.

Asclepius Hemlock did not die for h–

Perhaps, there was a chance that he was–

“Instead, he fucked his ass off to China and saved some undeserving [princess](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/Lian_Tian-e/Relationships#Mother:_Liu_.E2.80.9CWillow.E2.80.9D_Tian-e) instead. Good thing it did him,” the King snorted. “She was married."

He stood up, and pointed an accusatory finger at Airmid.

“Your predecessor sacrificed the life of  _my_  daughter for the chance to screw with a married princess."

“But he saved yours, didn’t he? He would have still followed the earlier part of his destiny."

The King faltered. “Well, yes, but what good did that do me? I could have died, ignorant of anything. Instead, I lived to see my daughter die.”

A sigh escaped him.

“No parent should have to bury their child,” he said, his syllables becoming dragged out and heavy. “Especially a King. The rates of our deaths in youth are considerably lower due to our social standing.”

“Are you implying that peasants are more deserving of having their children die?” Airmid slightly tilted their head, narrowing their eyes.

“No, I merely imply I deserve better."

“You deserve as much as anyone else deserves,” the physician’s voice boomed louder, and their fists curled up by their sides. “Death is the only true egalitarian effort. It does not distinguish between nobles and commoners. To deny this is to deny the fundamentals of life itself."

The King glared, fury on his face. Who had permitted this young upstart into the throne room, from a role already declared enemy of his family, to start preaching at him? Such insolence! What sort of pedestal did this man put himself on, and in what way was he raised?

This was no behaviour to display in front of a monarch.

“I am done with you, kid. Please leave, and take your whole lineage and anything at all related to your story with you."

“But I haven’t been here for even five minutes yet!” Airmid insisted. “There’s so much more to say!"

“There is nothing to say. You’ve proved yourself to be needlessly rude and demanding to a King in his own home,” he waved a hand, and immediately a couple of guards leapt to attention. “You think I would let another physician mess with me and what’s left of my family? Out! Out of you! Guards!”

Airmid raised their arms in protest. “I have a right to be here! I am the physician of Death!"

“You are an enemy to my kingdom!” the King shook his fist. From there, he turned his back – away from the door, away from the physician, and blinked back stray tears.

* * *

Bastion had been waiting outside, so deeply absorbed in a German newspaper that he failed to notice a dejected Airmid Valerian getting (literally) thrown out of the gates, until jolted by a sharp tap on the shoulder. “Oh! Airmid! Back so soon. How did it go?” he asked, and startled, tucked up the newspaper.

“Bad,” Airmid said. Their tone was quick and deadpan. “I would have rather snorted benzene.”

“Isn’t that poisonous?”

“It’s a carcinogenic. Not that it matters – his arrogance and ignorance gave me cancer anyway."

Bastion frowned as he debated whether to chide Airmid. “You shouldn’t be joking about such things. You’re a doctor, for D’Aulnoy's sake. It's insensitive."

"Sorry," Airmid said, face falling.

“So it didn’t go well,” he quickly switched the topic back. “At the very least, surely they let some minor details slip, did they not?"

“Not enough. It’s both disappointing and taunting."

He patted the physician on the back. It was awkward, but the sentiment was there. “The itinerary gives us two days here. We are fairytales, and three times the charm, they say."


	5. Chapter 5

“You know, Kings are so stubborn.”

The witch in the market continued to weave, fingers moving in rapid succession under the sheer fabric, so fast that one would hardly discern each stitch.

* * *

A cart had run over her wares.

Airmid Valerian had been walking nearby, mind swirling with thoughts of their recent rejection, of being thrown out before reaching anything significant. They balanced the possibility of their predecessor being a terrible person against thoughts that their predecessor was better than hexpected. Every breath was rushed and forced; on their chest seemed to lie a weight.

The crash of the cart and the stall had broken them out of those thoughts. Without a hunt of hesitation, Airmid rushed to help.

When one helped a magical figure in need, it would be repaid tenfold.

“I can sense you’re in a state of despair, confusion and riot,” said the witch.

The physician blinked, and without thinking, knelt down.

“What troubles you?”

“Royalty."

“You know,” said the witch, “kings are so stubborn."

* * *

“How did you know my trouble lay with the nearby King?”

The witch stared at them with a really obviously annoyed look. “Because he is the only royalty around here? Excuse me?"

Airmid Valerian felt stupid.

Without missing a beat, the witch grinned up at the physician, and gestured to them. “A legacy, might I ask? You all seem to flaunt your story on your clothing,” she quickly surveyed their clothes with a frown. "Candle, fire– is that a skull and plague doctor mask I spot? I must have run into one from Godfather Death.”

“Yes!” There was excitement in their voice. When one came from an obscure tale, it was always a delight to find one who knew it.

“Thank you for helping me reassemble my stall,” said the witch. “I say, perhaps you might benefit from an invisibility cloak? It seems to be part of the standard supply for adventurers, travellers, and ageing soldiers these days."

She swung a piece of silvery fabric into the air, folded it up and placed it gingerly in Airmid's hands.

"The thing only works for eight hours, I'm afraid. I don't have the license to make some that last longer."

“Why do you do this? Aid people? Give them items of help?” It seemed like a terrible way to run a business.

The witch smiled. It was difficult to pin down the atmosphere of that smile. It seemed at once enigmatic and alluring. “What’s wrong with a little altruism?”

* * *

“I’m back!” Airmid had yelled, a bit too loudly, when they returned. “With the paper, and groceries, and  _this_.”

Bastion had been staring at a computer screen, chin propped up on his hands, fingers intertwined, staring at a Hexcel spreadsheet. It took a prod in the side from Airmid before he looked up. “Is that… a cheap invisibility cloak?” he asked, looking at the piece of cloth Airmid held in front of him. “How did you–"

When Airmid launched into an explanation – the witch, the cloak, the moneyless offer, Bastion shook his head. “Sounds like a risk."

“I’m aware of my tropes!” the physician stomped a foot. “If a witch offers you help in a fairytale, you should never deny it.”

“A far too convenient deus ex machina,” Bastion took the newspaper, and propped it up. “Whatever you do, Airmid, it sounds mildly illegal, and please do not involve me in your shenanigans.

“Will you break me out of jail if I mess up?”

“No,” he lied.

* * *

That afternoon was spent alone navigating the castle. Floor plans were sourced from the MirrorNet, and kept open on their phone.

With ease, they navigated through the place – the guards were either slacking or asleep, and the halls were often covered in a thin layer of dust. Despite the lack of defences, Airmid kept up their guard, lest a small mistake let their cover be blown.

They managed to find the princess’ old bedroom on floor four, in a room located at the very end of the longest corridor. The solitary guard posted by the princess’ bedroom seemed more interested in what was on his MirrorPhone than his actual job.

Thank Grimm, the doors to the room were open. Although he was distracted, the guard would have been distracted by Airmid fiddling with the door nevertheless. It was safe to say that he did not notice a young teenager huddled in a witch’s invisibility cloak breezing past.

Airmid crossed their fingers between their cloak. If they had a spare hand and if the signal here permitted, they would have sent off a hext to Icarus’ kid cousin Mark, a plead for him to pray for their success.

But there was no use in demanding piety when you were disobeying the law.

Inside, the bed was neatly made, and several candles burned in constant vigil for the lost princess. Roses and snowdrops were sprawled across the tables – and fresh, from the smell of it, too. Sympathy touched Airmid’s heart. No wonder why the King and Queen were so frustrated with their presence: seeing Death’s physician must have opened wounds for their lost daughter.

At least twenty, if not thirty, years would have passed. That was an awful long time to mourn.

The edges of Airmid’s lips curled down.

It was too daunting – the atmosphere of this place. Still, the physician knew they had to persist. This was evidence that their story had existed, that the previous generation had lived it. Despite the lead-laden feeling in their feet, Airmid paced those hardwood floors, and stealthily took as many photos of the place as they could.

Before long, their eyes fell on a small plaque.

_For those interested in more of the lost princess, please check floor five._

They checked their MirrorPhone's clock. They had the time.

* * *

It seemed like a stroke of luck too serendipitous to be true, but Airmid was not the only person at the exhibit on Floor Five. A small, kindly looking couple was just entering the room which the exhibit was held, so the physician snuck in just as the door open.

“We are greatly fascinated by this story,” one member of the couple had said to the guards. “You know how rare it is to find any reference of it.” His voice was monotone and rehearsed.

“Indeed,” said the guard, in a voice just as monotone.

But Airmid gave them no cares. It was time to investigate.

There was not much here. A few paintings, and a 20th century edition of the Grimm Brothers’ Fairytales, the page opened to Story 044. Pictures of the King on his deathbed, and the princess too. Asclepius Hemlock was in these photos, his face scratched out. His hands were long and slim, and he dressed every inch the respectable physician.

However, in a glass case, was an item beyond precious.

Their daughter’s lately unearthed diary, which had been found buried in an old part of the building. It had been dug up with foundation constructions had been going on, restored and confirmed as their daughter’s. And here, it was placed on exhibit, in commemoration of their daughter. It was dated to have been her last two highschool years and all subsequent years until death.

The chance of it containing any trace of Asclepius Hemlock was almost certain. Every instance of their predecessor’s name was property of the Godfather Death legacy. This diary, presented at this exhibit, would be illegal.

Had Godfather Death known of this, he would have already claimed it.

Grimm be damned with Airmid didn’t take advantage of that.

* * *

When Airmid returned that afternoon, they almost kicked down the door. “Bastion! I have an urgent emergency! Bastion? Bastion!”

Bastion was passed out on top of his laptop keyboard, his head perfectly angled that he had been pressing on the ‘h’ key for fourteen straight pages.

The physician prodded him in the side, and Bas shook himself awake. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hurried and automatic.

“Why are you sorry?” said Airmid.

To that, he had no response.

Pulling out the chair opposite, Airmid sat down. “I just need some paperwork done.” They rushed into an explanation – their situation, the exhibit, the diary. “Surely there’s some way of getting around the legalities of this, right? That journal is rightfully mine, but I cannot resort to petty thievery.”

“Clearly anyone with a brain knows that journal should be yours.”

“But these royals are backwards. I’ll need the paper to prove it.”

It took Bastion Fanfarinet roughly a night to go through all the documents and lay out a concise and solid argument. For any other issue, it would have been two nights.

* * *

One should not be bored with descriptions of legal action, so as a narrator, I shall absolve you of that.

Yet, I wish to report that lawyers were called in, Bastion gave his report with a calculated grace and made clear the certainty of Airmid being in the right. He balanced words and toppled the situation in the physician’s favour, that even the Queen herself seemed moved by the statements.

The documents, the evidence – they were all handed over to the lawyers and the rest of the legal team. However, this whole affair was not merely a shut-and-open case.

“Hexpect us to give you our decision in less than two weeks,” said a man in a well-tailored suit. An enigmatic smile passed over his face. “I wish you two the best of luck."

* * *

When they left the scene, Airmid’s mind still fretted with worry. They shuffled nervously, fidgeted with the cuffs of their sleeve, and looked altogether lost.

“Is this right?” they finally said, when the two reached the door of the place they were staying in.

“You were in the right,” replied Bastion.

He had said it in what he thought a comforting tone, but it was lost on the physician. “Is it right to take away someone’s few memories of their daughter – their monument to their family – for a mere search for truth?”

“Perhaps it’s for the greater good?”

“What greater good is there?” Airmid turned the door handle, and it swung open with a brutal force. “I’m doing this out of personal interest. I’m operating on the possibility that nothing I find will benefit the wider world in any way.”

“The end justifies the means.”

A sigh. “But where do I draw the line between heroism and savagery?"

Bastion had no time to consider whether Airmid was quoting something or genuinely asking a question. "Are the two really that different? Do you envision yourself as a hero, Valerian?"

 _Do you envision yourself as a hero_? Undoubtedly, Airmid had always thought so. One who fought for knowledge and justice.

"Why yes, what else would I be?"


	6. Chapter 6

The quiet hum of Germany rolled in the background. Airmid Valerian looked back with a solemn, sad smile.

“I miss home.”

“Don’t we all?” said Bastion, in a tone that clearly implied that he did not miss home.

In a rented car, the two were slowly making their way across the border. Through Belgium they would drive, until reaching France.

Sitting shotgun was Airmid. When the city and its castle got smaller in the background, they tried to amuse themself with the Bluetoothfairy. After several attempts, copious complaints and the odd swear, they finally got it connected.

And then, there was the scream of heavy metal.

Had they not been waiting at a red light, Bastion would have surely crashed the car in shock. His body twitched in shock, his eyes widened, his breath seemed to catch itself. He took a deep breath, and braced himself.

"Dear Author.  _Airmid_ ," his fingers curled around the steering wheel with a sharp angry precision. "Some warning, please?"

Airmid quietly lowered the volume.

"Thank you," he said. “Um. Your music taste is interesting."

They beamed at his words, clearly intent on taking them as a compliment. In Bastion’s mind, metal sounded mostly like screaming and yelling.

The light turned red, and he drove on.

* * *

The two drove through Belgium, where Airmid wanted to stock up on chocolate, and into the northwest coast of France. The car was returned to the same brand of rental dealership from Germany, and Airmid and Bastion worked out their next plan.

Locating information on Airmid’s predecessor had been significantly easier than hexpected. Airmid seemed undeterred by this, but nervousness gnawed away at Bastion.

It was a fact of life that challenges get progressively more difficult.

He was unsure whether he was prepared for his own.

* * *

France was comprised of corner cafés and small restaurants. The place was far too romantic, the precise reason why Bastion had never felt at home in his own country. It loved too much, felt too much, held cheese in such a high regard too much. It was run off emotion and governed by fools, and filled with princes and princesses who would die and live and fight in wars for each other.

It was saccharine and sickening.

Perhaps others would have found something admirable or adorable about it.

“Is this… nice?” he had asked Airmid. It had been the second café trip that day, and Bastion Fanfarinet was getting sick of cafés.

“Yes,” said the physician, their eyes lighting up. “Did you know, according to the plaque outside, this café was established over a century ago? Just think about the possibility of one of our predecessors once visiting here! We might be occupying one of the very rooms they once sat in..."

“Or, the possibility of a predecessor going to any other nearby café or coffeeshop,” Bastion’s voice was insensitively sharp. “Either way, we’re off by a few decades. There’s little to reminisce over."

“Are you always this pessimistic?”

“Why are you so starry-eyed over the past?”

Airmid’s eyes darted to the side. The physician was unsure how to answer, and nervously shifted the coffee in their hand. “I would like to contest that,” they said, slowly. “I’m not starry-eyed over the past. I’m starry-eyed over the future. One requires acute awareness of the past for that.”

“Ah, but what about _appreciation_?”

“I do, well, appreciate what the past has brought us,” Airmid bowed their head slightly. “I don’t understand, is that bad?”

“To appreciate the past on a purely superficial level, ignoring all the injustices?” he raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

Without a change in their voice, the physician simply lifted their coffee to their lips. “You’re dulling the mood.”

Bastion Fanfarinet paused. Of course, he was being overly critical. Here they were, in a French café, neatly dressed, with good coffee. By all conventional definitions, this was what being cultured was. This was how he was raised. Living like this gained you respect from people.

This was everything that he stood against.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a certain finality, turning his head slightly.

He tried not to think about how bad he was at keeping conversation. Tried not to think of how every time he entered a room, laughter or conversation would cease.

“ _Why don’t you ever talk?_ ” people asked. “ _Why do you always answer in one-worded sentences?_ ”

Bastion Fanfarinet blinked, feeling tears around his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, not exactly knowing what he was apologising for. His presence, probably. “The sun’s in my eye.”

“Do you want to re-angle the table?”

“You can’t simply just re-angle the table–“

“No. We must re-angle the table. I simply cannot let you damage your retinae with ultraviolet rays like this,” Airmid stood up, holding onto the edges of their side of the table. “Bastion. Please put some effort in your health."

“The staff have already put so much effort in arranging the tables,” he protested. “It would be rude to override that.”

“Well, obviously not enough effort if the light is striking your eye at this hour of day,” they tilted their head, and cocked it in their own self-assurance. “Up!”

He sighed, stood up along with Airmid, and pulled up at the edges of the table.

It was a struggle. Bastion had clearly forgotten how much upper body strength he lacked. Nervously, he shot a glance at the physician, who was lifting their end with ease. He then hoped his own struggle wasn’t visible.

When he pulled at the end of the table, the edge of his blazer sleeve lifted up, exposing his wrist.

Airmid’s reaction was swift.

“Dear Grimm.  _That watch_."

Surprised by the sudden comment, Bastion dropped his end of the table, where it fell on his foot. He winced and tried not to show visible pain. He failed.

Bastion followed Airmid’s stare to his own wrist. It was a Swiss watch. Clockwork, not digital. A gift from his father, received a week and two days after his 16th birthday. Evidently, the watch had been sent as some afterthought: the engraving had the date wrong by one day.

“It’s beautiful, really,” Airmid noted the silver band resting on Bastion’s wrist. Indeed, it had a polished face, beautifully arranged clockwork, and the image of class. “I’ve always loved the look of a Scrollex."

He tilted his wrist to angle the face at Airmid more clearly. “Did you ever want one?”

“Of course. I simply never needed one, especially considering that everyone is carrying around MirrorPhones these days."

Wordlessly, Bastion unclipped the watch from his wrist, and dangled it in front of them.

Airmid arched an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious. Here. No catch," he said, swinging the watch slightly.

“Thank you?” they said, their words unsure. People simply did not give out expensive watches to not-even-friends.

Bastion never once said the words ‘you’re welcome’. Instead, he simply dropped the physician’s hands.

Airmid wrapped it smugly around their wrist and secured it. The metallic silver only mildly clashed against their beige colour scheme.

* * *

Of course, there were so few days that could be spent in such revelry.

And by a few days, Bastion Fanfarinet only meant one. One morning, and another afternoon, in a café was quite enough. It agitated him to live like this. These hours could have been put to work – to spreadsheets and important documents, or even, D’Aulnoy forbid, the very purpose of this trip.

He soon found it was no mean feat.

Suspects Number One and Two heard his proposal, and slammed their doors. Despite the speeches he wrote for appeal, further suspects decided the idea he offered was crass, and one even threw a teapot.

Nevertheless, Airmid Valerian’s sequencing of the suspects’ short tandem repeats did confirm, at the very test, that the shady people were correct in the fact that these were indeed Jacques’ children.

For some reason that Bastion couldn’t quite pinpoint, this made the data he had been sent feel even worse.


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you two in here in the first place,” he said. "I shouldn’t have been curious enough to know. I’m sorry.”

The man looked up, eyes decisive, and words sharp.

“My name is Antoine Devaux. And I refuse to take your uncle’s destiny."

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Antoine had said, when the two first turned up onto his doorstep and explained their proposition. He had raised his right hand, revealing a thin silver band on his fourth finger. “Come in, though."

His room had been small and homely. A few cheap Dutch landscapes had hung on the wall; the furniture was second-hand and slightly worn away. He had offered croissants and tea, and explained in the kindest of tones that, had the two found him two years ago and offered the destiny, he would have complied.

“I was at a dead-end. No jobs, no prospects, nothing. To serve in a destiny would have been a great way to end everything,” he sipped the cup. On the outside, he looked absolutely calm. “But the world started looking up.”

The other two refrained from making any comment. Antoine simply continued on with his small speech.

“A stroke of luck, one would call it. I got a solid job and even a promotion. I got engaged.”

There was a small, quizzical silence exchanged. “And you think being married is going to solve everything?” Airmid said, laying down their tea. “You haven’t even known this woman for two years? How do you know it’s even going to work out in the future?"

“True, but at least she was better than the past I had. I’m secure, I’m happy. But enough about it,” Antoine refilled the tea. “I want to hear about you two.”

Airmid had gone first, of course, in their own impulsive, quick-fire way. They shot off their name, destiny, and a few of their accomplishments. They rambled a bit about eminent scientists and their own aspirations, and finished with a quote by Voltaire.

“I see you’re familiar with the French.”

“Only the interesting ones.”

Bastion preferred to stay silent. He would have been happy to let the physician talk. Words ran off their mouth so much more easily, and he could have listened to the rambling all day.

But as luck would have it, what Antoine really wanted to hear was facts about Bastion.

And so he had to speak.

He gave all the important details – name, destiny. When Antoine prodded for more, he gave extracurriculars. When asked for interests, he blanked.

Seriously, he had given all the information one really needed to know about him.

“You’re a French Legacy!” Antoine had said. “There must be more!”

“No,” said Bas. “I’m afraid I’m not particularly interesting."

The rest of the talking – thank D’Aulnoy – was taken up by Antoine. He had given his tragic life story without any warning, he talked about his job, his fiancée, how she was coming home in a few minutes and it would be lovely for them to meet her. With his words, he painted a vibrant image, a life worth living.

And in the middle of a sentence, without warning, he stopped, and looked sharply at Bastion.

“You don’t understand, do you?” Antoine said, quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re  _family_ ,” he said. “Look, your uncle left me and my mother’s in prison, I was left to fend for myself, and now you just show up on my doorstep– tell me you’re my father’s nephew–“

He took a deep breath, and rubbed his forehead. Airmid Valerian thought this a perfect time to hexcuse themself to the bathroom.

“And I think – yes, finally, I get a gist of what my family history is like. And we’re– you’re a legacy! So it’s all fantastic. Furthermore, it’s a D’Aulnoy tale, which is fundamentally more interesting than Charles Perrault.”

“Very true.”

“Don’t interrupt me, I’m monologuing.”

(“A very good villain skill,” Bas thought, silently.)

“So here I am, thinking, cool. I can meet with and talk to someone grand and interesting. And here you are. And you’re, you’re–“ he struggled to find the words, gesturing his hand over and over in vain. “You’re–“

Bastion raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Dull. There, I said it. You gave me that vibe from your Flitter account, and you confirmed it in this room,” he sighed. “I had once thought of fairytale legacies as beautiful and well-dressed and self-spoken. I had thought that they carried stories and words and wisdom, and instead I get you. Look, man, I’m a spellemarketer, for gods’ sake. I sell people things on the phone. Everyday is the same rhythm and nothing changes. And you’re just– you’re just as boring as me. What sort of person as you? How can you live in a world so vibrant and colourful and turn out just like  _this_?"

The air was tense now, and too hard to get rid of. Antoine sighed and dropped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you two in here in the first place,” he said. "I shouldn’t have been curious enough to know. I’m sorry.”

The man looked up, eyes decisive, and words sharp.

“My name is Antoine Devaux. And I refuse to take your uncle’s destiny."

“But he’s your father–“

“Correction. He was your uncle. Not my father. He never cared one bit about me. So why should I call him so?” he stood up. “Please leave my house."

“I’m sorry,” Bastion said, reaching for his chequebook. He filled in some numbers, signed it off, tore the cheque out, and offered it to Antoine. “For your trouble.”

“Are you legit?” Antoine eyed the cheque suspiciously. “For real?"

“As real as this piece of paper.”

Once he had gathered Airmid, Bastion was nearly shoved out. And when the door slammed, it did so with alarming curtness.

* * *

"Seems we have a penchant for getting ourselves kicked out of houses, don't we?" Airmid said, as the two left Antoine's yard.

"Yes," said Bastion, who would rather not talk right now. He edged away from the physician, arms tucked into each other.

It wasn't the first time one of their attempts had failed, and Bastion was convinced it wouldn't be their last. But at that moment, it seemed as if their quest was a wild golden goose hunt.

“That said, we do have the rest of the day free,” he said, opening up the itinerary on his MirrorPhone. “Any suggestions, Airmid?”

“I want to get drunk.”

“Any  _sensible_  suggestions, Airmid?”

“I want to get drunk responsibly.”

There was a long pause as Bastion struggled with the thought. Then he sighed. “To be fair, I’m inclined to agree with you. This whole business has been tiring. You deserve a break for dealing with me.”

“It’s your family story, Fanfarinet. All the effort expended has been your own.”

“We haven’t gotten far. It makes me doubt if any worthwhile amount of effort has been put in."

“You're underselling yourself again.”

But that was the thing. Bastion Fanfarinet simply had a talent for self-deprecation.


	8. Chapter 8

To be fair, it wasn’t much of a surprise that the two found themselves stuck in a repetitive cycle of chess, while (responsibly) drunk.

Slightly dejected about having his whole life dragged by some total random, Bastion had ended up obliging to Airmid's request, purchasing alcoholic drinks of their choice.

In the middle of a bottle, Airmid Valerian had stopped. “Chess,” they had declared, rather suddenly. “Why have we never played chess against each other?”

“Due to a multiple of perfectly sensible reasons like time constraints and the fact that we are hardly friends.”

“Oh, hush. I mean, isn’t chess a game of like, political tactics?”

“War tactics.”

“Which are like, pretty much the same thing as politics back in the day.”

"A generalisation."

Despite everything, the two ended up playing chess for no good reason. As if chess itself was not reckless enough, Airmid Valerian somehow had the bright idea to turn it into a drinking game. Lose a round of chess, and take a shot.

“And is there any consequence for the drinking game’s loser?” Bastion had asked.

“There is no loser. Either you get drunk–“ Airmid added as a bit of an afterthought “–responsibly, or you have bragging rights for winning more games."

Bastion frowned because this was veering to the edge of irresponsible and ridiculous. But Airmid apparently gave no thought to this, for they now took Bastion’s MirrorPhone out and was installing a free chess app on it already.

“And now,” the physician declared, setting up the game on Bastion’s phone, pointing the white side of the board in Bas’ direction. “We play the game of gentlemen."

“And ladies,” Bastion whispered under his breath. He chose not to mention that he had played this game frequently with [Pythia Adalinda](https://everafterhighfandom.fandom.com/wiki/Pythia_Adalinda), and always got beaten by her tactics.

“Did you say something?”

“Oh, no, let’s play.”

And so they scattered knights and destroyed rooks and massacred armies of pawns. Except, of course, this being chess, the actual game was a lot more dull.

Their moves were swift and fluid, less than a second of thought over each move. It would have been a lot cooler if they didn't look like two idiots intensely huddled over a MirrorPhone screen.

"Checkmate," Bas said lightly, after a half hour and a bit had passed.

“How on earth–“ Airmid said, looked at the board and shook their head. “Swap sides. Again."

And yet again, they played. Bastion checkmated, again.

And again.

And Airmid finally managed to checkmate.

And then Bastion checkmated!

When one is an unskilled narrator, there is not much to narrate in terms of chess games. After taking a well-deserved hot chocolate break, the narrator would like to announce that the scoreboard began to look like 5 to Bas and 2 to Airy.

At that point, Airmid Valerian was not that drunk, certainly not drunk enough to start rambling philosophically, and managed to enunciate a phrase: “How in Ever After?”

“I used to play against Pythia Adalinda,” Bastion leaned back. “So, a game of gentleman, as you said?"

In one swift motion, Airmid grabbed the MirrorPhone off the table, and threw it behind them.

"-hexcuse me," Bastion said, watching his poor phone fly three metres in the air with a pathetic whistle and land on the carpeted floor with a sad little thud.

Instead of apologising for flinging Bastion’s phone carelessly, Airmid simply sat up straight and made a firm statement. "We are gentlemen, we are playing chess, I say that's a prerequisite enough for a game of gentlemen."

"The best chess players in the world are robots," Bas said dryly.

"A game of gentlemen and robots.”

“And ladies. Because ladies play chess.”

“And nonbinary figures, because they also play chess. Chess, a game of gentlemen, robots, ladies and nonbinary figures.”

“Can’t we just say ‘Chess, a game of the people’?”

They shook their head. “Well, it’s debatable in the case of robots, and most people find it boring, so I don’t believe it works."

"Can you please return my phone now?" Bastion said, quickly so Airmid wouldn't continue on with their derailment of the conversation. "Unless you're absolutely wrecked, I'm up for more chess."

So the two played four more rounds, in which Bastion won two, Airmid won one, and the last of which was a stalemate.

"Ugh," Airmid slammed their head onto the table. "Pathetic."

"No, it's quite impressive," Bastion said. "We've played chess eleven times tonight and you show hardly a sign of tiring."

"I would contest to that."

"You did end up throwing my phone up in the air in mild rage."

"No, I would like to contest to that with another round of chess."

"You're impossible," Bastion said, but the two played again anyway.

* * *

"You know how I picked up this game from Pythia. Might I ask how you did?" Bastion said when the round was done, closing the app on the phone.

Airmid sighed. It was a short sigh, a sharp intake of breath that indicated the physician was going to begin rambling. Bas leaned forward in preparation.

"People say if you come across a Reaper, just before you're about to die, it's possible to challenge them to a game of chess. If you win, you're granted your life back," Airmid explained. "That, of course, makes no sense because Death would just end up coming at a later date. The actual guidelines of the legend are quite murky, mostly because no one ever beats Death."

"And you learnt chess for the purpose..."

"Of besting Death. Yes," Airmid sighed again, but in a disappointed way. "Of course it's not going to work. But at least I cannot deny that I tried."

* * *

It was a memory often repressed, but on the day Bastion had found out he was the next Ambassador Fanfarinet, he had been in the midst of a chess game.

Pythia had checkmated twice already, and Bastion only once. When they weren’t forcing fashion dolls to reenact revolutions and riots, the two spent their grand time playing respectable board games. Chess, of course, was one of them.

The game was kept interesting in a number of ways, mostly due to Pythia attempting to amuse herself. The board would be filled with all queens, they would put checkers on the board in attempt to play that simultaneously, they would invent ridiculous rules in mockery of current politics. There were no phone-throwing then, and no mild rage when losing. Only two respectable kids playing their respectable games.

When that particular chess game was going on, it had been the cusp of the summer just before Ever After High started. Bastion had known Pythia would leave him – off to a prestigious boarding school to serve as the next Serpent Queen in the Singing Springing Lark. He had thought he would be left to himself, best friend hours away, until a messenger tapped at the door to the throne room they were sitting in, and announced he wanted to talk to Bastion.

He had known of the Princess Mayblossom destiny much earlier, of course. Had known that he was part of the Fanfarinet Family, yet hardly considered the idea of him being a potential heir of the destiny. It had been his uncle’s story, not his mother’s! And surely, with all the gossip and stories the maids whispered of that man, he would have left behind a son that could be readily sought and used as the next Fanfarinet.

For years, he had accepted that childhood would one day end and he would have to be split from his best friend, for he did not hold an honour like she did.

“A private message, young sir,” said the messenger.

“Is it really so private that you can’t say it in front of Princess Pythia?” Bastion asked.

“It’s sensitive information."

“Well, if you’re truly a good person, and it’s classified, then why do you things to hide?” he pointed out. “And if it were, say, rude, then who is spell is sending me rude messages? It shouldn’t happen in the first place. You can read it here, or not at all.”

The messenger sighed. This was an irrefutable argument.

He opened up the letter, and handled it to Bastion.

Then, he took a deep breath. “You are being assigned the destiny of your uncle, the previous Ambassador Fanfarinet of the Princess Mayblossom. You can either accept this destiny, or be forced into accepting this destiny. In preparation for it, you will be enrolled in Ever After High for the rest of your schooling life."

“… and probably for the rest of my life in general,” said Bastion, in a very small voice. In his hands, he gripped the letter. His eyes could only glance over it, it was too hard to process the words right now, not with so many confusing emotions swirling in his head.

“I’ll give you time to think,” said the messenger, who spun around and bolted.

But he couldn’t think.

He had not expected this.

Instead, he just sat there, with his letter in hand, staring at it blankly.

Pythia Adalinda did not know of the Princess Mayblossom. She was a Grimm, after all, and the tales of D’Aulnoy have faded from popularity in recent centuries. Unaware that her friend was going to die, all she did was grin.

“We’ll be going to Ever After High together, then!” Pythia had said, with no clue of the implications Bastion’s destiny carried with him.

“Yeah!” he said, in an imitation of Pythia’s happy tone, but the cheer softly left his voice. “I’m going to  _die_.”

“Aw, Bas, highschool can’t be that bad! It’ll be fun! Like in the movies, but better, because it’ll be us two!”

There was nothing much to do except to sit there, very quietly, staring at the letter without really reading it. “I mean… for a villain, Pythia, you’re lucky. Not only do you survive, you don’t get any repercussions! In fact, you get  _free stuff_!”

“The dress, the chickens…”

“Yeah! But I’m going to die, and have people think badly of me."

“I don’t think badly of you! And I won’t let anyone else ever!” Pythia jabbed a thumb towards herself. “I swear on it!"

And at that, she stuck out a hand so rapidly that she knocked half a dozen chess pieces off the board between them.

“Deal?"

Ignorant of two years of feeling isolated from the rest of the student population, having to grapple with the idea of being a teenager and going to die soon, and a load of other pretty nasty things as a result of his newfound destiny, Bastion shook that hand.

“Deal."

* * *

Bastion Fanfarinet woke up with a raging headache and the realisation he was getting nowhere. In the pit of his chest was a growing sense of unease.

The names that he had been given: true, they were all fathered by Jacques Fanfarinet, but unfit for the destiny. They either had things going for them in their life, or they were not into girls, or were already in a relationship or married.

One consistent thought invaded his mind.

These people had a  _life_. They found their purpose, outside of a predestined story, perhaps with few people telling them exactly what to do.

More importantly, whatever life they had – it had been achieved in recent years. Had he attempted this quest a year ago, or even two years ago, there would be no such difficulty wrenching these people away from their lives.

In fact, upon thought, he hadn’t even been in Ever After High two years ago.


	9. Chapter 9

It was such a minor worry, but a misplaced lighter was always infuriating for Airmid Valerian.

Typically, they would tuck their lighters in the inner breast of their waistcoats, or in the back pockets of their trousers. Now, both those were tauntingly empty. Neither had the lighter been present in the pockets of their bags, or erroneously stashed under a drawer or the bed.

It was not a significant lighter. Their favourite lighter was on a shelf, back in their dorm at Ever After High. This had simply been a dollar-store lighter, no sentimentality attached.

Neither did Airmid need to use the lighter at this particular point in time. It was simply comforting to know that a source of potential light was present at all times.

The capacity to access fire within one’s immediate reach was a certainty that Airmid Valerian much appreciated.

Perhaps the light got lost amongst Bastion’s stuff. Bastion himself was out at that particular moment – his turn to pick up the newspaper. Surely he wouldn’t mind if Airmid shifted through, so they gave themself permission.

They rummaged through piles of neatly ironed shirts and legal paper, before noticing a plastic bottle.

A pack of pills.

Their heart stopped. Their hands shook. They froze.

 _Vitamins_ , said the bottle, and Airmid Valerian could breathe again.

All those self-deprecating jokes Bastion made, those off-handed comments about not having enough time to eat food, those silently expressed reckless desires – they flooded their mind. The physician grimaced. The signs, the red flags, churned in their stomach.

It was a small fear. But it was a very real one, and had to be quelled.

* * *

When Bastion returned, there was the faint smell of burning in the room.

“Airmid, why is everything set up like a lab?”

Through their transparent googles, Airmid raised an eyebrow in defeat and guilt. “I, er– panicked! Nothing as calming as some che-myth-sy experiments, is there?” They gave a nervous laugh.

“Why are my vitamins on the table?”

“I was bored! Obviously, I decided that investigating their chemical contents was a worthwhile use of time."

“Even when you could have simply read the bottle’s label?”

Airmid Valerian crossed their arms defensively and turned away from Bas. “Science!” they declared, stamping a foot for emphasis.

“Science?”

“Science!” they reiterated. Airmid unplugged the hot plate from the wall, and leaned back in what they hoped was a nonchalant fashion. “As previously stated, I was bored. And I decided that checking the composition of the bottles was an utterly worthwhile activity to absorb my time."

“… as opposed to anything else.”

“Indeed. As opposed to anything else.”

Bastion Fanfarinet sighed and shook his head. It had been slightly raining that day, and droplets of water were still present in his hair. They fell onto the hot plate’s surface, and sizzled. “You and your fake ties and sudden scientific experiments,” he said. “How does your roommate deal with you?”

“With enough indifference.”

“Are spontaneous science experiments a constant with you?” he said.

But Airmid couldn’t stand that querying tone in his voice, couldn’t stand keeping up this charade and their concern. Their lower lip quivered, and they nearly broke down in tears. “Is it bad– am I allowed to be worried?” they said, flailing a little. “I saw bottles, my brain didn’t comprehend the labels quickly enough, and I panicked. My Public Health seminars talked about this type of thing in teenagers, you know? This is a widespread problem!"

“It’s my problem. Not yours."

“As your doctor–“

“You,” his voice was decisive, “are not my doctor."

“As a doctor, I’m meant to solve these problems!”

Bas breathed in deeply, counted to five in his head, then spoke. “Airmid. You can’t run around like a mindless hero towards every injustice you see."

“I– I–"

“Besides, whatever you’re thinking, it's accounted for,” Bastion waved the pocket diary out from his pocket. “In the five-year plan.”

“A five-year plan,” Airmid’s eyes darted nervously, and they tilted their head in a questioning, calculating manner. "What about time extended outside those five years?"

“You must realise, I won’t be around to find out.”

The silence that followed was stiff and awkward. Airmid Valerian did not know how to respond. They were never taught what to do in situations like these, and the situation was too pressuring for their mind to come up with anything sensible.

Instead, they nervously shuffled backwards.

Bastion Fanfarinet coughed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No, you don't need to be," Airmid said. "I- I should be apologising. I shouldn't have interfered with anything. Besides, don't some people  _joke to cope_?"

"I would prefer for the topic to move on."

"Of course! Of course! I just-"

"Please don't attempt to apologise. You'll only make this more awkward for both of us."

Bowing their head, Airmid turned away.

The awkwardness of their exchange was rivaled by the awkwardness of this silence.

“You know,” Airmid broke the silence. “Patient confidentiality is a thing with us, right? You don’t have to keep secrets from me, because you can relay them to your favourite doctor in confidence."

He wanted to roll his eyes – Bastion already previously stated that Airmid was not their doctor. “It’s amusing that you think you’re my favourite."

“If you doubt me, I can tell you one of my own secrets in confidence.”

Bastion nodded solemnly. “Let’s hear it.”

And so, Airmid Valerian coughed and straightened up. With the utmost dignity and confidence, they spoke more loudly than necessary.

“I wear fake ties.”

That confession hit Bastion like a brick dropped from the apex of a tower. “What?"

Airmid pulled the knot of their tie out, revealing that it was held together by a stringy piece of elastic. If the previous confession had been a singular brick, then this demonstration was two bricks.

“Valerian, you utter and complete fraud,”

“Freud?”

“No,  _fraud_. As in deceit.”

“Ah, I almost thought you were genuinely insulting me then.”

“I used to admire how you did ties.” The knots had seemed so perfect and neat. Had he had less dignity, Bastion would have asked how to tie his the same way. “But now, knowing the truth, I don’t know whether I can respect that anymore."

There was a brief awkward silence. “That is a true shame."

Bastion Fanfarinet shook his head. Dear D’Aulnoy, first that vitamin incident and now one of the cleverest people he knew confessing to such a crime? It was unspeakable. And really messing with his head. Bastion Fanfarinet knew he should get some food. If he actually ate food today, then he wouldn’t have been so pissy over such a small and superficial thing.

“Okay, okay, Airmid, tell me this. What other non-respectable trait do you have that will cause me to lose any semblance of respect I have for you?"

“Let’s see,” said the physician, and for two seconds, they were quiet. “I pour the milk in before my cereal."

And then, that was  _three_  figurative bricks.


	10. Chapter 10

“We have been walking outside this lawyer’s office for five minutes already," Bastion stared at the work address neatly written in his five-year-plan. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

"Of course! Only a lawyer's office is this unapproachable."

Having attempted to catch the next guy at home, only to find he lived in an apartment that required a swipe, led the two trying to catch him during an office lunchbreak.

So far, that attempt involved loitering outside.

The building was old and worn down, and it was almost impossible to find the door. The font of the lawyer's sign was large and intimidating.

“We could parkour in,” Airmid suggested, straightening up.

“Neither of us have the athletic aptitude for that.”

Before Bas had known that Airmid wore fake ties, the physician had looked respectable. But now, outside the law firm, he could pick out the creases of their unironed button up, the disarray of that tweed blazer, and how irritatingly fake that tie of damned lies was.

He sighed, and added, “Valerian, you disturb me.”

Airmid looked startled, and bowed their shoulders. “I suppose you’re right. Parkouring is the equivalent of breaking in."

“That was not my point,” Bastion said, and sighed.

* * *

“Benoît! Benoît! There’s a bunch of kid punks loitering outside our office. Go shoo them away,” the principal of the law firm burst into Gabriel’s cubicle.

“Yes, sir,” said Gabriel Benoît, and he left swiftly.

He was in his late teens, a tall stringy young man of 18, with no prospects or direction. With some luck and decent grades, he found himself clerking for a young lawyer. Still, that job paid mostly in experience and not cash, and he found it tiring doing coffee runs and photocopying papers and shredding sensitive documents.

With a sigh, he pushed open the back door. “Hexcusez-moi, gentlemen, but I would kindly like to request that you two get lost,” he said, looking up to the two with a tired gaze.

In those eyes, Bastion saw his mother. “Gabriel Benoît,” he said, without skipping a beat. “The man we wished to see."

The ominous, mysterious remark was met with a simple eyebrow raise. “Who are you two, and why do you wish to see me?"

He would have given that spiel, that speech he had prepared, but those words had frightened the people previous. Here, Bastion was ready to break away from the script he had written and attempt something new. And grimm damn it, maybe do something even impulsive.

“Hello, cousin. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

* * *

After work, without the slightest hesitation, Gabriel Benôit drove Bastion and Airmid to his apartment. “Cousin, you say,” he muttered to them. “Cousin. Surely, that doesn’t mean I’m in line to inherit the destiny that was yours.”

“You assumed correct.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in contemplation.

“Look, I’m here to offer it to you, no strings attached. Everything you get is everything in the tale. I’ll throw in some extra cash to keep you afloat, and a fair bit of tutoring on how you’re supposed to act.”

They were at a red light now. Gabriel rolled down the windows and lit a cigarette. “We’re all going to die anyway. Might as well live fast and die young."

While Gabriel was looking forlornly out of the car window, Bastion took a quick glance at the notes in the five year plan. "Are you... familiar with the Princess Mayblossom?" he said.

"Vaguely," said Gabriel. "D'Aulnoy is overshadowed by Perrault in these parts."

 _In this day and age, you mean_ , though Bastion. He was oft bitter about how Charles Perrault had solidified as the quintessional French author, when there was a Baroness who deserved it far, far more.

"All the more reason to fulfil one of her stories, restore that now-lost prestige."

To Gabriel, this apparent cousin, was quite compelling. "One thing. Why did you give it up?"

"To honour Madame D'Aulnoy, there's nothing more important than the accurate preservation of her tales," he said. "To say that I am an accurate Fanfarinet would be a serious reach."

"And you think I'm a more accurate one?"

"We'll see."

* * *

The spellevator of Gabriel's apartment was broken, so the three found themselves taking the stairs to the fourth floor. Halfway through level two and three, Gabriel sharply paused.

"How do I know that you two aren't axe murderers?" he said, and with a gesture to Airmid's suitcase, "especially when you're carrying that."

With a quick show of bookmark IDs - the standard identification for those with legacies - and a check of a Fairytale Characters Database, the man was convinced, and soon let them in.

It was a humble apartment. A beaten copy of Voltaire laid on the floor, papers and notes messy on a chair. It was the apartment of someone whom could be readily inducted into the life of a legacy.

The suitcases DNA test was, of course, not definite. One cannot prove paternity when one does not have the maternal sample. Still, half of the short tandem repeats seemed to match, and it seemed convincing enough.

("This is bad applied science," Airmid muttered.)

“You know, if you were going to take on the role as the next Ambassador Fanfarinet,” said Bastion, "it might be worth telling us about your life?”

“My life story…” Gabriel sighed, and looked up from his mug of hot chocolate. “Why must you ask about something like that?”

A smile almost tugged at Bastion’s lips. “Tragic backstories builds villains.”

Or, you know, tragic backstories can create characters who learn from the world’s mistakes and actively seek to do good and change the world and makes things better. But whatever. Bastion Fanfarinet did not believe in that sort of innate goodness.

“Father left, mother raised me,” Gabriel began. “That’s it. That’s all.”

“Nothing else? No parental death, no heartbreak, nothing?” Bastion prodded. “Surely…”

“I mean, my mother did pass in my teenage years and I had to cut down on my schooling to look after her and prepare for a funeral,” he said, beginning to list things out using his fingers. “Then, I had to work in food service since I was 16, trying to take night classes. Now, out of a stroke of luck with a sudden benefactor, I’m a receptionist for a lawyer.”

“… a sudden benefactor.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, and looked up. “Did you two have anything to do with it? It’s been tugging at the back of my mind, but I’d assume so.”

 _No, of course not. I didn’t even know you existed until like a month ago_ , Bastion wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. It seemed like a difficult matter and although he had already pried, it was too delicate to pry further.

“That’s not my place to say,” was the phrase he eventually settled on.

“Oh. That’s understandable, I suppose."

“Look,” Bastion took out his five year plan, checking it for emphasis. “All we want is for you - right now, at least - to spend a weekend with us? That’s as long as we’re planning to stay in France, anyway.”

“What about my job?”

“You don’t work on weekends.”

“But I have files! Work!”

“You can bring that with you. And in case you need more temptation, how much do you make per hour? And how many hours of work do you require daily?”

Gabriel gave him a figure.

Without a hint of hesitation, Bastion Fanfarinet took out a chequebook, wrote a cheque, and dangled it in front of Gabriel’s face. “It’s triple what you earn.  _Weekly_.”

“As in, you’re paying me this weekly, or you’re giving me triple of my weekly earnings for one weekend with you two.”

“Well, if you want to be specific, it’s the latter."

Fanfarinet’s son stared at the cheque. His eyes were like corridors of fire, he was seized by the desire to simply grab the cheque, run off with it, start a new life. Yet, that piece of paper wouldn’t last him more than a few weeks.

There was no harm in waving the cheque yet again.

“Say, if I did hang out with you, would there be more of–?” Gabriel gestured to the cheque.

“Undoubtedly.”

“I’m in.”

A small sense of guilt flared up in Bastion, but it soon quelled. Sure, he might have tempted a young man working pay-check to pay-check into signing himself up for a deadly destiny with money, but this was purely utilitarianism.

It was for the good of a Madame D’Aulnoy fairytale.

In the faint distance, was the sound of bell chimes. One, two, three, four, five, six.

“Well, then, cousin,” Bastion said, standing up. “Shall we take you to dinner as a family reunion?"


	11. Chapter 11

“And this–,” Bastion said, presenting a handkerchief tucked into an elaborate pattern, “is how you fold a pocket square. We’ll move onto bowties next."

“The trick is to use a pre-tied one,” Airmid said, leaning over. “No one can tell the difference."

“Airmid,” he said sternly.

“It’s true,” they smiled self-assuredly. Beneath their hands was a hastily folded handkerchief.

Bastion sighed. “You’re not creasing the handkerchief sharply enough. And you’ve given no regard to symmetry. Gabriel, how is yours?”

The other Fanfarinet held up the pocket square he just folded. Unlike the physician’s, it was evident work was put into it.

According to one of the several unwritten rules of adulthood and polite society, polite conversation should be maintained after dinner. When Airmid Valerian started stacking cutlery across the edge of the table and onto glassware during such polite conversation, Bastion had recognised the boredom of small talk, and tried to entertain the two in other ways.

Teaching the art of folding pocket squares was dull, but at least it was socially acceptable in this current situation.

“Apparently, fake pocket squares exist as well,” said the doctor to Gabriel, across the table. “Personally–"

“We are changing the conversation,” Bastion said. “An Ambassador Fanfarinet should appear every inch the proper gentleman. To cheat with these falsehoods undermines that image."

“And isn’t that just a dastardly, villainous thing to do?” said Gabriel.

“… a fair point."

Gabriel had wit – one could see that clearly. He would have no trouble with villainous one-liners and clever banter between hero and villain.

That fact would be further proven in a conversation a few topics down the track.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Bastion had commented. “You’re well-aware of the destined death that comes with it, and yet you’re still willing to accept my uncle’s legacy?"

“We’re all going to die. I don’t see why me kicking the bucket a few decades earlier makes much of a difference."

“A few decades is a long time.”

“Not necessarily in the long run. The world is meaningless, gentlemen,” he said, his voice ringing out in a sort of declaration. “Might as well have fun living in it. If the life of a legacy is grandeur, then I say a few years of fun is ultimately worth more than decades of boredom.”

“And that final day of agony?”

“An honourable way to go, I’d say. Personally,” Gabriel said. “There must be a reason why you two turned up on my doorstep. This is exactly what’s supposed to happen. Fate.”

“So it must be fate then, that my family chose to leave you undiscovered for over a decade?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it must be fate that you bear the emotional burden of dealing the news of your destiny in childhood, while I must wait until the more developed time of adulthood.”

‘ _You’re eighteen_ ,’ Bastion wanted to say. ‘ _That’s still so young_.’

Instead, in classic Fanfarinet fashion, he held his tongue.

The conversation soon switched over to Airmid. “And I heard you were chosen, not inherited,” Gabriel said. “What was it like getting your destiny, –Valerian, wasn’t it?"

“A stroke of luck, really,” said the destined physician. “Not everyone can be the thirteenth child of a peasant, and have Godfather Death himself serendipitously stumble upon your biological father."

“Yes. Almost as lucky – or rather, unlucky – of having a bastard of a father, or–” he gestured to Bastion, “an uncle."

“Being the physician is an absolute honour,” said Airmid.

“We’ll both end up dead, Doctor,” Gabriel pointed out.

Almost unblinkingly, they responded. “Yes, but one of us gets venerated.”

“That is correct – physicians do get forgotten, and Fanfarinets do get painted portraits."

“But you get villainised.”

“As do you, for going against your godfather.”

Airmid found no way of responding in a dignified manner to that. Instead, they leaned back over to Bastion. “You know, he’s quite the wit.”

“I believe that had once been a prerequisite of Fanfarinets?” Bastion replied. “Certainly, a prerequisite I never managed to fulfil.”

“I would argue otherwise."

“You flatter me,” he brushed off the remark with a small wave of the hand. Despite himself, Bastion grinned briefly, but soon resumed his previous seriousness. Turning to face Gabriel once more, he said, “I feel like I’ve told you this several times, but you are more than perfect for the Fanfarinet destiny. It would be a loss if–“

“I rejected it. Of course, I won’t,” Gabriel smiled. “You lead fun lives."

A false image. Bastion did not live a life of casually running off to France and throwing caution to the wind. Gabriel saw the money and the fake confidence. He did not see the tears, the self-doubt, the self-deprecation and the constant wish to throw oneself off a cliff and get this destiny thing out of the way. But, if Gabriel had known all of that, would he have agreed so eagerly to the proposition?

“Is this what it’s like to be a legacy?” Gabriel had asked, the cool air echoing his words over the balcony. He gestured to the table they sat at, and the Parisian city stretched out below them.

“Close enough."


	12. Chapter 12

If this were the life of fairytale legacies, then what a life it was.

Gabriel Benoît was speechless. In a weekend, he had been treated more decently than he had ever been in his life. People acted around him as if he was someone – not the overworked clerk he had once been.

Appointments usually occurred in the mornings. Even the stuffy, tiresome act of suit fitting was chill – one simply walked in the direction of the tailor, avoiding bookings merely due to legacy privilege. Gabriel could not help but think how grand it would be to carry one of those bookmark IDs, and have shopkeepers and restaurant staff let you in at your own.

Afternoons were spent around the streets of Paris. He had time to spend his time pouring over paintings, time to actually spend wandering through the Louvre. It was freedom beyond measure, a life beyond simply living.

Later, in evenings, there was a thrill in renting a car and driving around, headlights down the street, watching the glow of streetlights from the window, doing all the teenage things his youth had robbed his of – drinking, laughing.

And talking.

For once in his life, people wanted to hear him talk.

It seemed as if the words that came out of one’s mouth was more valuable if your clothing was neat and respectable, if your relatives had some sort of renown. People didn’t simply hear him; they listened. He could ramble about fate and philosophy, contradict himself in one sentence to the next, and he would be met with polite clapping and compliments. He could misquote Voltaire and Descartes, and no one would bat an eye.

* * *

It was unfortunate then, that a man who liked to talk so much didn’t involve himself in the conversations Bastion and Airmid were oft to have. They were too personal, too tied up with the fairytale world, that all an outsider could do was nod and doze off.

So in the late evenings – when midnight was near, it was just the two. Bastion Fanfarinet and Airmid Valerian, too drunk to care, throwing their thoughts out into the air, like some unrecorded history.

“Do you think you could have saved the princess?” he had asked once.

Instead of answering, they asked in return. “Do you think you could have ever run off with a princess?”

“Only out of obligation,” he said stiffly. “For the good of my story, for the benefit of my author.”

“Story over self? What was that called again? Utilitiness? Usefulness?”

“ _Utilitarianism_ ,” Bastion corrected the term with a roll of the tongue.

“And yet you aligned with the Rebels for the destiny debate!”

He turned his head away. “I was a villain. We all kinda got guilt-tripped into it.” He breathed in deeply. "This movement is supposed to improve your lives, they said! This is supposed to remove all the stigma! I didn’t believe in those ideals. I didn’t get the point. Fanfarinet deserved his fate. Thus, who’s to say that I didn’t deserve to die?”

“And that’s why peer pressure sucks!”

“Weren’t you a Rebel as well? For what reasons?”

“Obviously, it’s the philanthropist option!”

"Was it?"

"It seemed the correct stance at the time. Advocacy for the right of autonomy! That’s a system worth fighting.”

* * *

_A system worth fighting._

One could not possibly be friends with Pythia Adalinda and not have activist dreams when younger. Bastion had joined her in marches, carrying posts and signs. They blended in with the crowd, hoping their tales were just obscure enough not to attract attention as legacies. He rarely raised his voice, but he had then – and done so proudly.

In the safety of the Adalinda Palace, they had drafted up little amendments to laws and their own decrees, to which the Queens had praised their little game of politics.

But when youth faded, along came tumbling his energy to fight.

Activism had been neither as cool, nor glorious, or glamorous as they had made it out to be. It had never been all peaceful – years later he had heard of smoke bombs and gunshots and blood on streets. Bastion Fanfarinet had firmly recognised that everything he once done was the ignorant idealism of a child.

Perhaps, it was safer to simply conform, and tell oneself there was nothing wrong with the system.

* * *

“That’s… that’s very brave of you, Airmid,” he said, with a bit of a thought. “Not everyone has your strength."

“Doctors work for the people! It’s a debt to community, for the benefit of others,” their arm was propped up, forearm perpendicular to upper arm, fingers shifting about as if they were pulling words for them to articulate.

(Although, with them having drank so much, it was hard to articulate.)

“I thought it natural to align with something meant to help.”

Bastion said nothing, turning away slightly.

Dear D’Aulnoy, for someone who praised the process of uncertainty, Airmid Valerian was downright convicted in their principles.

“Admirable,” he said. “And perhaps impractical.”

More would have been said, had the conversation not been interrupted by a knocking at the door.

Gabriel had managed to open the door before either Bastion or Airmid reached it, and was in polite small talk with two men in sharp suits. They recognised the approach of Bas and Airy – and had they noted their drunkness, they did not show it.

“Ah, the man we wished to talk to. Your proposition was a success: the journal is rightfully yours,” said the one on the left.

“Here,” said the one on the right, who pressed it into Airmid’s hands.

“Thank you,” said Airmid. What more was there to be said?

With a polite nod, the lawyers turned and left.

In their hands laid the wrapped journal. With a blurry look, Airmid observed the cover, and realised they were too drunk to savour this victory.


	13. Chapter 13

Bastion Fanfarinet had expressed no qualms: the opportunity to rid himself of his destiny was too great, too rare to inspire any worry. While the three revelled in France, there was no time to sit down and think. When one’s life was short, one had to live what little of it one had.

Only when everything had been packed and arranged for Ever After High did the gravity of the situation come rushing up to Bastion Fanfarinet. It was a sharp and sudden acceleration, thrilling yet terrifying, and he had not been prepared to be suddenly struck by such worry.

In the evening the three were meant to leave, Bastion tried to throw up the sick feeling in his stomach, then took a good long look at himself in the mirror.

People had told him he never looked much like his uncle. His face gave the impression of a Fanfarinet, though no one could pin down exactly why. The expression? The atmosphere? Bastion Fanfarinet was hardly charming, and any handsomeness was more unapproachable than alluring.

His thoughts swirled to Death again, something that he thought far too much about. Then, to his five year plan.

Would people remember him? If so, as what? Before the erasure of destiny, he would be yet another Ambassador Fanfarinet, a piece of trash who deserved no grave fancier than the harsh bottom of a sea.

Then, there was Gabriel.

Dear Author,  _poor Gabriel_.

He had so much life in him, so much vivacity. It was almost a shame that he was so willing to take up the role, and replace Bastion.

Gabriel Benoît deserved to live more than him.

That seemed certain.

He sighed, and stared intently at the mirror again – tried to think of himself in five years, yet only imagined that dark watery grave. Tried once more to think of happiness, it felt too unrealistic and taunting, and pushed that thought aside. Finally, he tried to think of living life on the edge.

A life with no plan had rarely appealed to him before.

Why did it call to him now?

What a mess he was.

No. He couldn’t be thinking like this. Not after expending effort, and a good week and a half working this damn thing out, he would be damned if he went back on his work like this.

Gabriel Benoît was the next Ambassador Fanfarinet.

And Bastion Fanfarinet just had to accept giving up something that had been a decent part of him for the past two years.

* * *

When Airmid had packed their bags and delicately carried the suitcase downstairs, Bastion was waiting. He had a certain air around him, and Airmid spotted it immediately. On his face was that expression one made when compiling thoughts.

“Just spill,” said the doctor. They were already tired from carrying the briefcase downstairs. It contained no longer just the analysis materials now, but also the precious journal.

Bastion sighed. When he began to speak, his words were almost a garbled blur. “I just don’t know whether this is right. We’ve told a guy that being a fairytale legacy meant that you lived your life with solid funds, that you can blow money on nice suits and replicas of paintings. For the first type of his life, we taught him what comfort means.”

They had sent him to one of Paris’ best tailors. They had bought him a replica of a favourite painting. He had lived a good life – a false slice of what being a legacy was like.

“I just think, since he’s never been hexposed to any of this before, that we’ll break him,” he frowned. “Airmid, is that bad? Am I a bad person?"

“Why do you think so?”

“I just– I don’t know. This is deceitful. I feel like this should be morally wrong.”

“If you think about it, it is his destiny, after all. It’s what supposed to happen,” Airmid looked solemnly into the distance. “People say that’s how the world’s supposed to work.”

 _The end justifies the means_ , Bastion told himself,  _the end justifies the m–_

“Despite any controversies and my opinion,” Airmid said, “it’s still your life, your family and your story. I shouldn’t be intervening.”

“Didn’t you help the Junipers?” Bastion said.

“They were certain of what they were doing to fix their destiny. You, however, are totally winging it. That of course is ironic because I thought t _hey_  were the birds.”

He bit back his tongue, and let Airmid continue the conversation.

“Ethics aside, how do you feel about Gabriel? In purely destiny terms, of course."

"He's perfect. The most accurate Fanfarinet I've seen,” the ghost of a smile was on Bastion’s face.

“The role he was born to play."

“More like die to play,” he quipped. A morbid smile broke on his face, and that morbid smile into a small laugh. “Sorry, that was terrible.”

Airmid Valerian blinked. “Did I just observe you make a joke? And laugh? Once I would have thought the world would collapse before you gave a genuine smile.”

“You mock me.”

“Hexcuse me, you’re fun to mock."

“Thank you,” he enunciated those words bluntly, but said them with a smile.

* * *

Gabriel arrived to the scene soon enough, carrying his own luggage with the chill ease of a villain.

It was scary how perfectly fitting he was.

(And even scarier, Bastion thought, why no one had bothered hunting him down before.)

“Morning,” Gabriel said with a curt nod of his head. “Might I comment on how surreal this all feels? In such a short period of time, to have one’s life change so quickly?”

He spoke with the chill, commanding ease of a villain too.

(Bastion knew that he should be internally spellebrating his loss of destiny.)

(Yet why did he feel nothing but dread?)

His plan had been simple. The village of BookEnd was a prime place to live -- both in terms of quality, and in terms of networking. If Gabriel could live there and pick up enough fairytale decorum through social osmosis, he would be well-trained.

Bastion had opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a word out, his phone rang. With a quick gasp in mid-breath, he made a gesture to hexcuse himself from the conversation.

When he picked up the phone, his face had been calm, but that demeanour fell once he heard the voice at the other end.

“Mother?”

He said nothing, and only let the voice on the other end speaking. Disbelief was scarred into his face. “Yes– yes. I see… You– everything? Now? Right outside?”

And sure enough, there was a slick black car, with a man in a French suit.

(Bastion’s first thought was how jarringly  _modern_  this whole scene was.)

“Fanfarinet?” asked the man.

Slowly and skeptically, Bastion nodded, and glanced nervously at his two companions.

“I believe we should get in,” he said, the feeling of dread in his stomach returning. “I would rather not mess with the mother figure."

* * *

(It had been such an abrupt change of plans, yet Bastion was in confusion as to why he felt little over it.)

Conversation in the car had been awkward, painfully long and strained and dragged out.

Mostly it had been Gabriel posing questions – Bastion giving one-word answers and Airmid rambling about something only mildly related to said question.

He had prodded about Bas’ parents (“tolerable”), asked about where they were heading (“the France-Switzerland border”), and queried about the nature of the king they were to serve.

“Technically, we aren’t connected to any kingdom,” Bastion said. “We used to be, but when Fanfarinet Original started off the Princess Mayblossom story, his family were essentially fired. Instead of connecting ourselves to a kingdom each generation, they send the next Fanfarinet to live and work under the next King Merlin of the story.”

“And who does that happen to be this round?”

“Turnus Wyllt.”

“Wyllt? So is he actually a Merlin?”

Bastion blanked. “I… genuinely have no clue. It might be worth asking him, though.”

Upon thought, he had hardly made an effort to acquaintance himself with the guy who he was once supposed to be ambassador for.

There was something ironic about that, which Bastion couldn’t quite put his finger on.

* * *

When the three arrived, the car jolted to a stop in front of the Fanfarinet Villa.

Outside, stood a woman, short in stature but tall in prestige.

“So, the prodigal son returns."


	14. Chapter 14

“Motion sensor,” Airmid said, their voice echoing through the large room they had been assigned. “Nice.”

The Fanfarinet Villa was just as grand as Airmid envisioned, yet they had not hexpected the presence of motion sensor lights. It was seemingly odd for a family so entrenched in tradition to install something so modern.

As soon as they settled into this assigned room, they dug the journal out of their bag, and swung into the desk chair.

This was a delicate operation. Too delicate for the carriage car ride here, too delicate to investigate with scrutinising, curious eyes watching.

Godfather Death had missed a solid piece of evidence containing Asclepius Hemlock. What a miraculous stroke of luck. Of course, Airmid Valerian had to savour this serendipity. A physician, once more, outwitting Death.

It was beautiful irony.

They ripped off the soft cloth wrapping, exposing the leather bound journal underneath. Airmid ran a hand over the edges. It was worn, years of lying buried in the ground, only now released into the light. This book was representative of beautiful, untouched truth.

The physician held it up into the light, but only briefly, so that its cover would not be too damaged. They couldn’t bear to open it yet, couldn’t bear to look into its contents and start recording everything. This was a moment to be savoured.

First, the front cover would be open, revealing the second entry. Then, the back cover open, revealing blank pages at the back.

Airmid heaved out a sigh.

This was all too much.

This would have been far, far more information than any other physician has found.

To soon reach some sense of knowledge about their predecessor was taunting. At the same time, it was frightening. There were so many possibilities, and Airmid Valerian felt utterly unprepared for them all. Yet, those with the ability to adapt survive, and Airmid was ready to mould their mind into a new understanding of what their destiny once contained. If their idealistic bubble of the previous physicians burst, then so be it.

Back to the front cover did they turn, running their hands ever so lightly over the surfaces. Airmid quickly chided themself for this, one was far too likely to cause damage like this, until their fingers ran over a bump.

Something was wrapped inside the inner front cover. Airmid frowned, and softly pressed around that bump, realising that it formed the edge of a perfect rectangle. They pulled the desk-light, shining it forcefully down, and saw the undeniable skeleton of an envelope.

Grabbing an hexacto knife, Airmid sliced open the inner cover, pulling out the envelope. Strange. For something so old, the envelope looked so new. It was clean and white, and on the front, in neat, loopy cursive, were the words, “ _Love, Hemlock_.”

Clearly, he had written his princess a note, and she had buried it inside her diary, hoping to preserve it. Sneaky.

But not sneaky enough.

Airmid placed the journal to one side, and the envelope in the centre of the desk. Carefully, carefully, they pried open the sticky seal with the hexacto knife, and pulled a piece of clean paper out.

The paper was small, enough for a few decent paragraphs. Airmid unfolded it, finding one side completely empty, except for a small message printed in comic sans.

Jokes on you, said the message. I was planted.

Mind blank, hands shaking, they turned the paper around, seeing the spiral writing that was clearly too indicative of their dear, dear Godfather.

_Hello Airmid Valerian,_

_I wish to apologise. Deeply._

_As a reaper, I have made several mistakes in my life time. Being a complete idealist does that to people, did you know? I always think the best of everyone, I believe that potential can be found everywhere – and there are the very things that would become my doing._

_You, as Death’s physician, hold a position of power over the world. You are one of the few mortals granted with an ability to save or kill, with one of the simplest of administrations. There are kingdoms and governments who would kill for such a power._

_And power, as we know, corrupts._

_I’m sorry to report this letter was not from Hemlock, as you hexpected. I’m sorry that you didn’t learn anything, if all, about him._

_I promise I will make that up to you._

_Let’s get tea when you return back to Germany, okay?_

_Best of luck,_

_your favourite (and only!) Godfather._  
  
---  
  
  
And as if that paper had been made from leaden bricks, Airmid’s hands fell, and crashed onto the table. Disappointment curled in their chest, their heavy breathing intensified. Their hands left the edges of the paper as if it were spilling ink, and their fingers curled up, crumpled in distaste.

Everything in this letter – this whole journal–…

False. Deceptive. Inaccurate.  _Wrong._

Airmid thought of all the effort Bastion went into for this – the messy papers, the way he enunciated his words and his argument so clearly. They thought of the thrill when the lawyers came, journal in hand. The hope that Asclepius Hemlock and the previous physicians might be remembered in history, that Airmid’s name would be passed on.

That confidence, that positivity, had fuelled them.

Now, there was none of that.

The letter had been planted.

Everything they did was all for naught.

Their head swirled. Everything seemed to hurt. There was nothing but a repetitive noise inside their mind. Useless, purposeless, helpless.

There was no one around, no one who could understand. The physician simply buried their head in their arms, and wrapped themselves up in shocked silence.

* * *

"Ugh," Bastion had said, reading some news site on his laptop. "White men infuriate me."

"I'm a white guy."

"This isn't about you, Airmid."

They inched back. Of course, Airmid Valerian was ignoring the point of Bastion Fanfarinet's statement completely. Of course, not everything was about them. They thought of other doctors who thought themself centre of the world, realised that they all succumbed to the laws of their fairytale, and perished anticlimactically due to that. They were becoming just like the previous physicians, and had it not been for the letter – they might have gone too far.

Bastion, without noticing much of Airmid’s body cues, started explaining. Something about privilege, something about new legislations, something about a ridiculous amount of control over something or another. Airmid tried to work out what he was saying, tried to translate the jargon he was using, but it was all too much.

Especially when their thoughts was preoccupied with something else.

A few nods managed to convince Bastion that Airmid knew what he was talking about, and the tense atmosphere sort of dissipated. Until–

"I have a question," Airmid said. "Do I mansplain?"

Bastion stared. Quite directly, in fact, at the wall behind Airmid, and pondered what good concise answer he could give, without much success. Instead, he simply stood up, turned around his chair, and sat, his back to Airmid.

It was the only correct answer.

Behind them, the clock ticked.

It ticked again.

The electric kettle whistled.

“I asked a question," Airmid coughed.

Bastion stood up, and paced quite carefully over to the electric kettle. He took it off the heating element, and poured the contents into a mug. “Do you think you mansplain?” he asked.

“I… I just like talking. A lot. Is that so wrong?”

"Not at all," he said, pouring steaming water in Airmid's mug now. "When people like hearing what you say."

The awkward silence that followed pained Airmid.

“Look, I apologise, I shouldn’t have brought this up,”

They were always too much. Too loud, too energetic. They talked too much, rambled too much. Everything was simply too much. They acted like they were more, much much more than they actually were.

Perhaps that's why it was so hard to hold a conversation, to capture people's interests, to do anything really. There was not much Airmid could give to the world, yet they acted as if they were the world. No wonder why people were bored of them.

They were an embarrassment to the Godfather Death story.

Or rather, they were not an embarrassment, but yet another physician. Cocky. Arrogant. Ignorant. Thinking they could change the world or fix themselves or fight the system. Always succumbing to it.

Airmid's thoughts wondered to all their statements - "world's greatest physician", "I am Airmid Valerian, after all".

So were the rest.

And they were all forgotten.

The realisation was fresh to Airmid Valerian. It was a reopened wound, a loud reminder that the life and legacy they dreamed of leaving would not be fulfilled. Their brain screamed again, this time a defined word.

The word hit Airmid Valerian like a well-thrown brick.

Failure.

In their mind, failure was a word associated with the previous physicians. Those had failed to comply within the rules of the Reapers and Death, those physicians had failed to restrain themselves and their dicks. Moreover, they failed to defy what destiny had in store.

Airmid Valerian was going to rest amongst them.

* * *

There was literally nothing to do until the morning, when Bastion would finally talk to his mother and Airmid could spend their time in the library.

It wasn’t as if Airmid could put their mind to anything – all they could think about was the heaviness in their gut and the gravity of their problem.

After pacing around their room for straight minutes, with heavy metal blasting from their MirrorPhone because it was the only thing that could block out any thoughts, Airmid thought to give themself a break.

And so the physician flung themselves on the bed, and just lay there.

There was no energy to do anything right now, not even cry.

They were, after all, a failure.


	15. Chapter 15

“You must understand why I called you here,” Elise Fanfarinet pushed the stacks of paper on a desk aside, as she looked up to her son standing in the doorframe.

Bastion Fanfarinet had forgotten how empty the room felt and how cold the atmosphere of the villa was. He had never really made himself a home in this place, and once he had stepped in, realised he never would.

“I can’t forgive you, Mother,” he said. “I did in two weeks what you couldn’t in fourteen years.”

She had opened her mouth, with the intention of saying some kindly words or comforting phases to ease that frown off his face. But what words could a mother say that could undo the errors of the past sixteen years?"

"Your tie is lopsided. Please take a seat, son."

He ignored that sentence, pacing around his side of the room, displaying no intention to pull out a chair. “What sort of mother are you?"

Her heart clenched.

“What sort of mother sacrifices her own child to die?"

“Bastion, please listen to me.”

“You didn’t even try! If someone like me could do it, then you could."

“Bas–“

“A minimal amount of effort and two weeks. With breaks!"

“Bas, please.”

“And don’t call me Bas!” he wanted to slam his fist down on the desk, maybe kick a chair or something. “You’ve never listened to me for sixteen years! And I call you Mother,” Bastion shook his head – more at himself than at his mother. “I never should have done so."

“How could I force another woman to go through my pain?” she said. “What good would it have been to storm up to her and tell her that the child she reared is meant to die?"

* * *

_She had been eight when her father was sent off to ask the princess’ hand for the king’s son he had served._

_Eight when guards came back, knocked on the villa door, and told her that father was never coming back._

_They had told her it was because he had ran off with a younger woman. Not only was adultery illegal in the kingdom he had served for, but he was “done away” with because that woman was a princess._

_Elise Fanfarinet was very well-aware that the kings’ men would line up criminals and fire endlessly at will._

_If she had known her father was destiny-bound then, she would not have imagined his body resting and rotting in prisoner’s pits. She would have known that his true fate was lying in the bottomless sea._

_She had crouched with her brother, Jacques, by the cracks in the door to listen to her mother sob to chambermaids and friends. Marriage was a sham, her mother had said. Fate was inescapable._

* * *

And with those words, Bastion Fanfarinet fell silent.

He calmly took a seat.

(For D’Aulnoy’s sake, he never realised how that much talking exhausted him.)

“I’m sorry, Mother."

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I yelled at you. I demonstrated an inappropriate display of anger,” Bastion bowed his head. He didn’t count to five; he didn’t remember to breathe. His sort of villains were supposed to be slick and chill – not reckless and ruinous.

“It’s understandable,” she waved a hand. “You’ve always been good at bottling up your emotions. A fuse was soon to blow, anyway.”

He looked up, with a raised eyebrow. “How in Ever After do you know that? You’ve never cared about me. You’ve never made an effort to get involved in my life."

“I am your mother.”

 _And a downright terrible one_. “How is that related to anything?”

It wasn’t as if being a mother was some sort of saintly status. Snow White’s stepmother had her sent away on the account of vanity, and sent a woodsman after her literal heart. Hansel and Gretel were cast out in the woods by their mother. Those two were of the stepmother variety, but even so. In fairytales, mothers were passive as their children got turned into ravens or got courted by bears. Mothers wept and sobbed and rarely made an effort, while their daughters would be off saving themselves.

“You give too much prestige to the role of mother,” he added.

* * *

_You shouldn’t give such prestige to family in the first place._

_Her father and mother had loved each other. That was why they married. At least, that’s what the villa staff had told her._

_It was only until she was older when it became clear. He did so, in hopes that he would be spared by those who reinforced destiny._

_But the world was cruel, and did not care for personal trifles. Certainly, not at the risk of legacies._

* * *

“A mother is what keeps a family together,” Elise Fanfarinet sighed. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenteous of stories about evil stepmothers, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and far too little on evil mothers,” Bastion said. “Truly unrepresentative of the real population."

Her shoulders drooped as she struggled to maintain her dignified, emotionally stable image. Had Elise Fanfarinet ever been emotionally stable? Father lost, brother lost, and now almost her son.

She thought of all the deaths Ever After gave their born-to-dies.

She thought of how they would suffer.

And she wondered why so little people would think of how each of them had a family left behind.

To her, Jacques Fanfarinet had been long dead before he plunged into the sea. His youth and kindness had died once he found out his destiny.

Dearest D’Aulnoy, she fit all the trappings of a villain.

“I gave birth to you,” she finally said. “At least give me some credit for that, Bastion dear?"

And at that, all she was met with was a stony face.

He thought about how he was always sent to Germany.

It was always surprising in how many subtle ways living with the House of Adalinda had changed him.

Pythia Adalinda knew how to protest, and for a very brief period of his life, he was once an activist like her.  _Every child a wanted child_ , he recalled some of the signs saying.

“I never asked to be born,” he said.  _I never asked to grow up like this._

Elise Fanfarinet watched her son tilt his head up. It was an odd gesture – his posture had always been meek, his words had always been too constructed and polite. Here, was a silent display of confidence. Her son had never once looked like her brother, but in that moment, he also could be.

“I believe I should be apologising for sixteen years of neglect, then,” she said, slowly. “I’m sorry, Bastion. You had so much potential. You would have been the perfect son, had you a better mother."

“I…” Bastion began, and paused. He frowned, and stood his ground.

His mother stood hers.

The moment itself was still. Silent, deadly, poised. There was a calculating air, as mother and son tried to discern the other’s thoughts.

In fact, the moment was so still, the motion sensor lights went off.

With that, reality sunk in.

“I’m sorry,” were the words Bastion blurted out. Carelessly, without thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, again, tasting words he never properly considered. It was foreign, it was strange, and yet–

– it was real.

The impact of that feeling churned in him uncomfortably.

There was nothing he could do but be ever the more impulsive.

He turned his heels, and walked out.

The lights flickered on again.

* * *

When he exited out of those study doors, it seemed both as if the world dropped his weight on him and lifted it off his shoulders. Bastion Fanfarinet felt oddly unbalanced. He wanted to arch a skeptical eyebrow at himself, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

In his blazer pockets were his small pocket diary of his plans, and a pack of blank cue cards.

Bastion Fanfarinet kept walking, pacing through his childhood house. He gave the odd nod to any staff who passed by, but otherwise, he was lost in his thoughts and requiem.

He walked until he reached the courtyard, where a fine fountain stood.

Poised at the top of the fountain’s sprout was a nondescript marble figurine, who was leaning backwards, {teering} over the edge, in the midst of toppling. The figurine grasped his face, in particular his eye, where a knife rested in.

A small spark of fury ignited in him. Why was this fountain even erected, what use was that decoration? He didn’t even know why he was angry, or what for, but he wanted to do whatever to erase that figurine from sight. Yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bastion attempted to look aside. Still, the figurine lay in peripheral view, taunting, mocking.

Seized with a furious thought, he took that pocket diary out of his blazer, and flung it.

He did not hit the figurine – Bastion Fanfarinet did not have the hand eye coordination for that. The diary hit the rushing water, and fell down and down and down to the bottom of the fountain.

Bastion stared at the diary, as it lay water sodden and pathetic.

The fury in him seemed to die, and all he felt was a sense of satisfaction, a catharsis.

For good measurement, he attempted to fling the set of cue cards in his pocket at the fountain as well. Air resistance was his enemy – instead of falling into the fountain as he had planned, they fluttered all around. Only a fraction ended up floating on the water’s surface; the rest were scattered along the edges.

With a small shrug, he picked the scattered ones up. There was no point it adding further stress for the cleaners.

* * *

Airmid Valerian was found in the personal library, loudly criticising the arrangement of the books. So was Gabriel Benoît, but he had been less vocal and more fake about his pleads.

For a brief moment, Bastion hoped that the two didn’t cause a scene, then realised he didn’t really care. Screw his parents, screw his destiny, screw his family. If they found his group annoying, then they could simply, as the teens say, “get lost”.

“Mother wants to talk to you, Gabriel,” Bastion said.

“Largest room on the second floor, across the courtyard. You can’t miss it,”

And with that, Gabriel rushed off.

“And Airmid, your tie is off-center. Please straig-- wait," Bastion paused, "is that a real tie?”

The physician turned around, a small sulk on their face. "You made fun of me for using elastic ties!”

"I was not making fun, I was just confused and weirded out,” he shook his head. “It just just so unnerving – being impressed that you did up ties so well, to find out that you didn’t do them up yourself."

"Weirded out?"

“Unnerved.”

“Semantics, semantics,” Airmid waved a hand. “Don’t use your language to trip me up."

“I do not use a word for the sake of butchering a word.”

“Ah, so you admit that all your words are chosen carefully. Almost like someone trying to insult another without getting away with it.”

“You are–“ Bastion’s eyes darted. “What is wrong– are you okay?"

"Look, for once in my life, I'm trying to be normal, okay?"

"You're wearing a normal tie, and that’s your attempt at normal?”

“I–“

He shook his head. This was infuriating. It wasn’t Airmid’s fault of course. It was the fact that his plan got wrecked, that he got dragged half way across the country (totally uneconomical, by the way) to his family’s place, his mother actually displayed emotions, and his friend was acting weird.

He needed time to sit down and take a breather.

“Airmid, are you alright? You seem out of it,” Bastion asked, after some thought. “Can’t have that happen to the greatest phys–“

“Don’t call me that,” Airmid turned away. “I’m not the world’s greatest physician."

“Look, I’m sorry my family had to get involved. I deeply apologise for this inconvenience. If there’s anything I can do to–"

“The purpose of the trip was for your family! This has nothing to do with me! Stop acting like it does!”

“Do you need space?”

Airmid Valerian did not respond. Instead, they just flopped down on the ground and turned their back to Bastion.

After a while, they lied down, and crawled up on themself, arms wrapped around their legs.

Bastion Fanfarinet simply stood there.

… The room was very tense and he did not know how to deal with such awkwardness.

… At least one minute passed by in awkward silence.

Finally, they spoke. “I’m not as cool as I thought I was. In fact, I’m not cool at all. Maybe people were right about me. Perhaps I am a neopolitic conman after all, riding on a Godfather’s gift to succeed in medicine.”

Bastion very well knew that he didn’t do anything – at least not intentionally – of Airmid to be in this state. But he couldn’t help but feel guilty. A person couldn’t suddenly break down like this, and if Airmid had been on the verge to, Bastion hadn’t been there to support them. What kind of friend was he?

“There’s nothing wrong with you, if you were wondering,” they said in a small voice. “It’s all my fault. Me, and my overconfidence. Mere hubris. Icarus and the sun. Flew too high, burned myself out and crashed."

“Is that the same reference to what Juniper was named after?” Bastion asked. “Huh. Oddly fitting."

“You know what always confused me about that myth?” Airmid looked up from their foetal position. “The higher the altitude, the colder it gets."

At this point of the conversation, Bastion Fanfarinet felt like he was just throwing out words and phrases into an abyss, and was getting nowhere.

“Airmid Valerian.  _What is wrong_?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” they said. A sigh escaped their throat. “ _I don’t know anything_."

* * *

Elise Fanfarinet had not been the man’s face before, but there was no doubt in her heart that she knew who he was.

He looked so much like him, that she could have almost mistaken him for her own brother at eighteen – had she not been wearing her glasses, or too tired to process things properly, or something.

Gabriel had the same bridge of the nose, the same eyes. She thought of her son – how unfitting he looked in his role, as if enveloped in oversized garments. This young man differed greatly, and was truly her brother’s son.

She desperately wanted to say ‘welcome to the family, you’re a Fanfarinet now’. But D’Aulnoy… welcoming him to the family was expelling him from the family at the same time.

Her heart clenched.

How many years had it been? How many years since Jacques’ death? Almost twenty when he fell from the cliff and everybody’s favour. Scratch that, it was not falling into the sea that killed Jacques, it had been the promise of destiny itself. Youth and sweetness had perished, and he came tumbling not long after.

This Gabriel Benoît would too meet that same fate.

The very thing Bastion had criticised her for was the very thing Bastion was carrying out himself when he brought this young lad into the Princess Mayblossom story.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she said.

His eyes glistened. She knew that glisten all too well. So many princesses and princes from storyless kingdoms had that glisten when they were picked to be love interests, so many third sons and farmboys grinning at the mere opportunity for a legacy. Even when that legacy was terrible, even when it ended in death -- it reigned above a life with no tale.

Gabriel Benoît was no different.

"Yes," he said. "I have nothing to lose."

"Not even your life?"

"I never had one.”

A tragedy.

And now with his new destiny, he was never going to have one.

“Please sit down,” she asked him, cursing herself for forcing him to stand. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

“Oh, um. I’m fine, thank you."

There was an odd sort of contemplative silence between them. Elise struggling to cope with the fact that  _this was her brother’s son_. She could have known him at least a decade before, could have driven him to a destiny much earlier, could have spared her own son’s life– and condemned him instead.

Instead, her son had returned, thrown his role out of the window, and sent a helpless young man to follow it instead.

A good thing his mother was already dead, thought Elise. I cannot imagine having another woman go through this struggle.

Still, in her own fear, she had ruined the lives of two young men.

_What kind of mother and aunt was she?_

“I’m sorry,” said Gabriel. “What– what should I call you?”

“You can call me your aunt, or Elise. Preferably, Aunt Elise.”

He nodded. “So, my father– he was your brother, correct?” When she nodded her affirmation, he continued. “How was he? What was he like?"

Silence entered the conversation again, as Elise Fanfarinet tried in vain to grapple her words together. Eventually, she sighed, and let the syllables roll from her mouth. “Ruinous."

“Ah.”

“I pray the same does not happen to you. We’ll try to prevent it, non?"

“I would hope so.”

There was a brief pause. “You know, dear nephew: I never did do sisterhood right. I never did parenting right, either. Maybe, with you, the world has granted me a second chance.”

“Don’t you have a daughter?” Gabriel pointed out.

“Well,” said Elise. “There’s a reason why both my children are at boarding school.”

* * *

“Airmid Valerian, you are literally one of the smartest people to walk the corridors of Ever After High,” Bastion said. “How in Ever After could you not know anything?”

“Socrates,” said the physician bluntly. They were silent for a beat, then buried their head deeper into their foetal position. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t even a half-decent reply.”

“No, no, I got the joke,” he said, in an awkward attempt of consoling.  _‘If you could call it a joke.'_

“That’s the very thing, Fanfarinet! I am a joke! Perhaps that’s all I am.”

 _You are certainly not okay_ , Bastion wanted to say, but there was no use in stating the obvious. “Something happened, right? How… how is your side of the trip? How is hunting down the physician’s details going?”

“Ah. That’s the very thing."

“Would you like to talk about it, then?”

“Not now.”

“That’s understandable,” he said, and didn’t pry.

All silences between the two had been awkward, and this one had perhaps been the most.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Airmid said, when the silence finally broke. "The way we call this friendship and don’t even have it in us to vent.”

Bastion opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. But how was Airmid supposed to know that whatever this was – this friendship, companionship, whatever – led him to reveal more about himself than he ever had to anyone other than his closest confidant? He had given this doctor the power to wreck him – had he not already wrecked himself already.

And not even that. Pythia Adalinda knew him as the dignified mess of a debate partner, her view of the real Bastion Fanfarinet was stillborn at fourteen years old, when he learned to be serious but not self ruinous. People thought he was friends with Charmaine Lexwington, but every time the two ran into each other, Bastion only really talked out of politeness and obligation. He couldn’t stand her pity. He couldn’t stand that idea pushing at the back of his head, telling him that she was here in attempt to fix him.

He could reform himself by his own grimmdamn self.

“I’m sorry. I could do better.”

The physician’s face fell. “No, you’re doing fine. I– I brought my own destruction upon myself.”

"Airmid, you know what might cheer you up?" Bastion suggested, pulling the remaining cue cards from his pockets. "Setting these on fire."

They struck their lighter, he held up the cards.

But alas, the two achieved nothing but activating the smoke alarms and getting drenched from the resultant water spray.


	16. Chapter 16

It was almost freedom to put the villa behind him.

The three were in a carriage car of a train, whooshing at many miles per hour through France. The scenery had been simple yet beautiful. Grassy fields atop with trees. The occasional aqueduct. A lake– a large body of water...

Bastion’s thoughts travelled to the sea. Cold and salty. Not much different from him. But he was no longer Ambassador Fanfarinet. There was no reason to think of the sea, and think death afterwards.

Yet–

The association was so hard to break.

He moved his eyes up from the lake, and tried to focus on the countryside. How beautiful and calming, it seemed. Away from the city, away from people. Most importantly, away from destiny.

In his contemplation, Bastion couldn’t hope but notice the others were silent. Gabriel was tucked up in a copy of  _Candide_ , ignoring the world around him for the words of Voltaire. And Airmid… Airy was staring down at their hands, propped up on the table, eyes blank.

“You’re been quiet,” Bastion said.

“I’ve been contemplating,” replied the physician. Their voice lacked their usual energy. “You know that I’ve been– well, that I’ve been poorly. I think you deserve to know why."

From their bag, they pulled out the letter and the journal.

“They’re fakes. Both of them. Godfather Death planted them to test my curiosity, no doubt.”

“Are you sure you want to discuss this in front of–?” Bastion gestured to Gabriel.

Airmid shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Outside, the train passed over a bridge. In Bastion’s side version, he noted how tall the bridge was, how far one would fall if it inadvertently broke. His mind flickered to fatal heights in general, and realised he didn’t really care anymore.

Propping the edge of his face on his hand, he waited for the physician to continue.

“I’m happy for you, I really am. You got what you want, and you’re got the freedom that comes along with it. But I’ve been personally sent on a wild mother goose chase,” Airmid sighed. “I don’t know how my Godfather found out about our little trip, but he did. Likely, he was tipped off by Grimm or another source. Whateverafter, that doesn’t matter, because he purposely planted information to  _trick me_.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “Your Godfather knew we were on this little adventure. He got to Germany before us, and tricked you into thinking you were actually successful?” That’s cruel, Bastion thought.

“Precisely,” Airmid said. “You know, I was in the mist of thinking I was great. Thinking I was the one physician who actually might break the cycle and restore people’s memories of the past physicians. I was so daft, and careless, and wrong."

“Personally, I think you did quite well. Befriending a witch and getting that invisibility cloak was fairly ingenious."

“ _My own grimm damn Godfather doubts me_ ,” hissed Airmid. “How in Ever After is that quite well?”

“You did your best.”

“My best should be leading to success! Anything less is– dear grimm, anything less is  _worthless_.”

No, that’s a lie, Bastion wanted to say, but what good would it have been to say it? Words seemed useless right now, as if the two were throwing them around like nothing.

He made a mental note to give something to Airmid Valerian in his last will and testament, realised he had thrown his five-year plan away, and slumped his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Airmid continued. “Look, I work hard, right? I’m determined to make people understand my status is achieved through my own work, not some miracle herb. I write articles, I’m published, peer-viewed. I’ve invented new methods, I’ve given ReadTalks. You know all that! I constantly tell you what I do!"

“You deserve all those accolades. Really. You wouldn’t have them if you didn’t deserve them."

“I feel like I’m just trying to justify myself and it’s getting nowhere,” the physician buried their face in their hands. “Thank y–you, Bastion Fanfarinet. You’re… you’re a mildly decent human being to vent to. It’s like… throwing rocks at a brick wall, and the brick wall throwing bricks back.”

“That makes no sense, Airmid.”

“Exactly. It’s a metaphor. Um, I think it’s supposed to be representative of how this world works,” they lifted their face from their hands, donning a small smile. “Like, how the seasons never seem to be predictable at school.”

“Or how long this school year is taking. It feels like five."

The smile broke into a laugh. “Yes, indeed! Why– why are we so worked up in finding sense and tying together threads when literally nothing around us makes sense?"

“Maybe we just want our own place in this world. A tiny island in the sea of fairytales."

“Still, no one understands how important knowing my predecessors’ paths are to me,” Airmid said. “And what you just said, the whole island thing, that’s why I want to know. Remember what I said? Looking further into the past–“

“– and you can look further into your future,” Bastion nodded. “Yes."

“And I’m definitely not angry at Godfather, it’s just– I’m so confused. Why? Why would he do this? To all his apprentices and physicians? It seems like such a wasted effort, surely there’s some ulterior motive."

“You might never know. And that’s okay. You did say that uncertainty was something worth embracing."

“Yeah. I’m not sure if I can handle that possibility, though. Airmid Valerian. Yet another physician, once more forgotten to history.”

Bastion placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I won’t let them forget you. Promise.”

He patted the shoulder awkwardly. Airmid patted him awkwardly back.

In that moment, the world did not seem like a clear mess. The horizon of their respective lives would be blurry, constantly sought for but never reached. That which was further would be obscured by the curvature of life.

Was there comfort in uncertainty?

No, but there was truth, and that was enough.

* * *

When they had gotten off at the station, Bastion Fanfarinet had instructed Gabriel to go get them some food. Practise for the diplomat part of his destiny, he had said.

In reality, it was just so that the man could temporarily get lost.

“Alright. Airmid. I’ve been thinking on the train."

“Hmm?”

“So,” he said, trying to work out how to articulate these thoughts. “The letter. You’ve been quiet and reticent because of it. Essentially, the letter has silenced you."

Airmid wasn’t quite sure exactly how to respond.

“And that, in itself, is a self-fulfilling prophecy, correct?"

“It’s ironic, that’s what it is. I searched for information to discover more about my legacy and therefore myself,” they frowned. “All I’ve done is lost myself."

“Precisely. Hence, you have to try your author-damn hardest to find yourself again.”

"And what hexactly do you mean by that?"

“The world is going to tell you whatever you do – whatever you say – is worthless,” he said. “Your job is to prove them wrong. So rant. And ramble. Because those whom the world remembers are those who made a scene. If you say silent, or say what’s hexpected, all you’ll do is fade away from the world's collective memory."

“That’s– that’s inspiring,” the physician looked a little awe-struck. “Thank you, Bastion. I’ll take note of that."

“I did promise you something,” he said, nearly choking up. “I won’t let the world forget you."

Had he given the same promise two weeks ago, it would have been a hard promise to keep for someone who had no plan to live long.

“You’re crying,” said the physician, eyes wet. “Bastion, you’re–“

“I’m not crying,” said Bastion, crying, but only a little. “You’re– D'Aulnoy damn it, Airmid Valerian,  _I’m crying_."

“You’re going to make me cry."

“You’re already crying.”

“We’re a mess. We are a grimmdamn mess of a fairytale,” Airmid Valerian shook their head. “In Grimm’s name, Bastion Fanfarinet–“ They couldn’t finish their sentence, sniffled a little, and wiped their tears on the back of their wrist.

On impulse, he hugged them.

Not an awkward bro-hug, done in a split second with a harsh pat on the back. Not a pity hug. This was a proper platonic hug. A “I’m here for you; you’re great as heck” hug.

It was rare and warm and comforting.

They hugged him back.

“Look. You’re free to ramble. You should ramble,” he said. “There would be nothing less tragic if the world had lost the energy of Airmid Valerian."

He patted the physician awkwardly on the back. They patted him awkwardly back.

“Um,” said Gabriel, who had returned with food. “Am I interrupting a moment?”

Instead of replying to Gabriel, Bastion broke away from the hug and hugged Gabriel instead. Airmid gave Gabriel an additional awkward punch on the shoulder, then decided that a punch was not enough, and joined the hug.

“I suppose I am  _part_  of the moment now."

Gabriel sighed, and accepted the hugs.


	17. Chapter 17

Speech returned, but not in the same way. Their sentences were short and jolted, as if their thoughts came in shattered, scattered sections rather than their old sea of rambling, the oceans of contemplations that spilled over and flowed gracefully.

Airmid Valerian cursed this lost confidence. It was nothing short of an inconvenience.

The trio were in some part of Belgium now. Neat rows of buildings, wide pavements. Near them, was a fountain.

It was a nice fountain – a dark metamorphic rock ring, water spurting from the ground erratically.

While Gabriel and Bas were working out directions and food places, Airmid ambled over towards that fountain.

The two Fanfarinets' animated discussion on cafés became simple background noise. Airmid tuned them out.

And without thinking, Airmid jumped up on that rock circle.

And jumped down.

Then jumped back up on it.

And down again.

And they continued this little stunt of jumping up and down.

For a good, brief moment, they were lost in their stimming, until it was broken by a loud voice.

“Hexcuse me! Young men these days! No respect!” said an angry looking man, striding over.

Airmid nearly fell off the fountain in shock.

"Do you know how irritating it is for people like you to come here and do that?" he shouted. "Do you?"

His yelling had caught the attention of the Fanfarinets, both of who looked up from their MirrorPhones and maps.

Gabriel took a glance at the situation, and went back to looking at his phone. Bastion, however, slipped his own phone in his pocket, and striped over.

"I'm sorry, is my friend--" he had almost said 'being a bother', before realising that was the last thing he wanted to imply. "I'm sorry," he said again. "How did my friend ever wrong you?"

"You teens and your disrespect for authority! Jumping on everything and acting like you own this place!" the man said, again. With that, he let out a string of words and phrases, too fast to discern, perhaps too rude to report.

He made so much noise, he caught the attention of a few people in nearby crowd.

One of these people had been dressed in a casual blazer and bowtie, with grey hair and smile creases on his sides. Upon seeing the trio, his wizened face melted from shock into skeletal form.

“Son!"

* * *

“Why are you here? Who died?”

“A Reaper has a life outside his job, you know,” Lanius Nightshade said. The three – four now, with Lanius with them – were sitting in the nearest café, hot chocolates in hand. "Though, if you were actually asking - my future, my sense of humour, my self-respect, my decency, my–"

"That's quite enough, Godfather."

Lanius raised his mug of hot chocolate to his lips – not that was any good, he had been in his skeletal form that day. The image looked almost comical. “Alas, I thought my humour would appeal to the youth more. It was intended to be self-deprecating. I’m trying to hashtag keep it real."

Bastion Fanfarinet fidgeted. It was taunting, really, the fact that he had busted himself out of school to make a run from death, and here was a representation of it, sitting in a coffeeshop, raising a mug of hot chocolate (but never sipping or drinking it) nonchalantly. “Are you alright, Gabriel?”

“I’m fine,” said the new Fanfarinet. If Gabriel was disturbed by the presence of a Grim Reaper, he did not show it.

Airmid looked at the mug in their hands. “You promised tea…”

“Hot chocolate is sufficient. Unless you three would like me to accompany you all in BookEnd?"

"No, no, it's just..."

"The letter?"

Airmid didn't respond. Their shoulders drooped.

“Please don’t get your hopes up, son,” said Godfather Death. “Upon thought, I think… I think you deserve to know the truth. Not necessarily the nice truth, though.

Airmid’s shoulders drooped. "It's just... I always envisioned them as intelligent individuals. The journal hinted otherwise.”

“Oh, they were all intelligent, alright. Brilliant is my adjective for them all,” he looked at his mug of hot chocolate. “Just a tad overambitious."

"Like me."

“People– humanity–“ Lanius said, stirring his drink. “Well, we’ve changed a lot over time. But then again, we’re still the same. You might look up to the old greats, but upon realisation and scruntisation, you’re just as great – and just as terrible – as them."

His rambling was met with a stoney silence.

"How does that quote go?” Lanius put a bony finger to the side of his mouth. “The past is a different country–“

“– they do things differently there.”

“Exactly. No point in romanticising it, and no point in treating the past as better. Change, as we all know, is how we develop and improve and grow increasingly more complex. That Charles Dickens guy deduced that concept, I believe.”

“Darwin,” Airmid corrected.

“Same gist,” Lanius laughed. “Just think about how far we’ve come! Free vaccinations!”

“No polio.”

“LCD screens!”

“MirrorNet!”

“Touchscreen MirrorPhones!”

“Hoverboards!”

“Social media in which I can spam my fellow Reapers with memes that they do not appreciate decently enough!”

“Um."

“So, to all those people who talk of the past with a glint in their eye,” Lanius said. “They can go back there and churn their butter and die young from childbirth.”

“Perhaps we should send the anti-vaxxers with them.”

“I readily welcome that idea."

Airmid laughed, then recognised that carefree attitude of Godfather Death. It only ever occurred when he felt down. "Godfather, I think you're attempting to distract me from the point.”

His grin fell from his skeleton face, and his voice went quiet. “I know nothing of what you talk about.”

“The point is the past.”

“Or is the past the point?”

Airmid Valerian raised an eyebrow at their Godfather, not unlike the way Bastion Fanfarinet raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, I am digressing,” Godfather Death straightened up and fidgeted uncomfortably. “You do deserve to know, you know."

"So why aren't you telling me?"

"Perhaps I'll tell you back in BookEnd."

It had been a trend. Make a scene, return to BookEnd, discuss things over tea at the Mad Hatter's Tea Shoppe.

Of course, it would be ridiculous to talk about such an issue when two others were sitting with them. The information surrounding the previous physicians was most likely sensitive.

Still, waiting around for that day? Painful.

Airmid screwed up their face and tried to move the conversation along. “How was the conference? The one in Iceland?"

“Rather illuminating, I’ll say,” Godfather Death tapped the edge of the mug. “We’re attempting to keep up with new technology, perhaps we’ll even spruce up the reapers’ website. Votes were cast and it was determined that a colour scheme featuring pink glitter will make it in the next update.”

“I’m sure that’s very productive."

“Oh! Very! And we’re even considering the potential of launching an app form! Truly, we are a modern society!"

At the mention of an app, Lanius quickly glanced at his MirrorPhone. “Look at the time! Well then, I must leave,” Godfather Death stood up, and bowed a little. “I have some errands to carry out in France, you know. Loving talking to you all. And Airmid? Do me proud, son."

As if on cue, Bastion stood up as well. “Hexcuse me, Mr Nightshade,” he said, quickly darting over to Godfather Death. “One last thing?”

“Yes?”

He stuck out his hand.

Lanius’ Reaper Form did not have eyebrows, but you could see him raising a skeptical one anyway. “You’re too obvious, young Fanfarinet."


	18. Chapter 18

When cells make proteins, the two strands of DNA separate temporarily, for the part of genetic code to be copied.

Afterwards, the strands of DNA rejoin.

* * *

To return to Ever After High was surreal.

In their trip, it had seemed as if the two were living. This was life – not corner cafés and coffeeshops, not formal attire and mildly kidnapping lawyer’s clerks. To live were those conversations throughout the night, and those the quips exchanged to escape reality and truths.

Ever After High seemed sanitised and forced in comparison.

Truly a fairytale, then.

Seeing those pastels and saturated oranges almost made Bastion want to throw up. And this time, he would have actually had something to throw up, because he remembered to eat breakfast.

It was such a shock, that even the narrator’s exposition and description began to be deteriorating and lacking.

“Things that are realer than seeing Ever After High like this,” Bastion quipped. “Airmid’s Valerian’s tie.”

“The letter from Hemlock.”

“That butter substitute of corner cafe  _vingt et un_."

“Bastion Fanfarinet.”

“Hey!"

Gabriel dived in between the two. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, you’re both pretty. Would you please stop fighting, and let me simply appreciate that we are in close proximity to Ever After?”

With only mild shock, Bas stared at Gabriel. “Dear D’Aulnoy, your speech has improved.”

“I hope that’s not mocking, cousin.”

“No. Spell no! It’s perfect for an Ambassador Fanfarinet."

The next Ambassador Fanfarinet – Gabriel, now – beamed. “Honoured to be turning out to your hexpectations. Now, what had been your plans, again?"

* * *

Bastion Fanfarinet had arranged a meeting with Grimm. He planned to take Gabriel Benoît to meet him and to explain the situation and suggest a more suitable role switch.

Meanwhile, Airmid Valerian had that scheduled tea shop meeting, with an all too nonchalant Godfather Death.

* * *

“Listen, I know what people say. Learn history or you’ll see yourself repeating it,” Lanius Nightshade, having given up his skeletal form that day, could finally sip tea. “Yet consider: I was so embarrassed by my past mistakes that I wanted no one to bring them up.”

“But our story is a fairytale! The point of it is to be constantly told.”

“It wasn’t a fairytale when I first carried out the Physician Project. Every generation afterwards, it just became habit.”

“Why?”

“The same reason why I delete my angsty throneblr posts.”

He wanted people to see him as cool. He wanted respect and admiration. And what sort of person respected a reaper who’s greatest feat was also his greatest mistake?

In the name of Grimm, his whole personality was based off how people would see him.

How superficial of him.

Well, the world was changing, as was the concept of destiny. Perhaps the way he could tackle his story could change too. He thought of restoring the memory of the previous physicians to the world once more. The thought felt like a punch in the face. He thought of making Airmid Valerian the first ever physician to be remembered. It was a nicer thought, but there had been greater physicians than Airmid before.

It was all very confusing.

The only sensible thing to do was sip that tea.

A calm and peaceful silence followed. Just the two, and their tea. Living life. Thinking about the Godfather Death story. It was such a candid image that justice itself could not inspire more.

Eventually, Airmid broke that silence. “I tried so hard to retrieve some information about Asclepius – anything!” they said. “And I thought I did. Upon thought, surely you must have worked harder to erase all of that.”

“I did.”

“Then my own arrogance has done me in,” they grinned, and raised their glass. “Icarus and the sun."

“No, I don’t believe it was all for naught. I did promise you something in that letter, you know.” Godfather Death sighed, and blinked back tears. Tears? Grimm, this was far too emotional for him. He dug into the drawstring bag he carried with him, and pulled out a file. “Asclepius’ criminal records,” he said, slamming it down on the table.

Airmid Valerian stared at the file for a long, long time.

Eventually, they spoke.

“Criminal records?"

It was not criminal records they had asked for, but information on the past would have been contained in them nevertheless. Yet, the mere thought that a previous physician, one so respectable and hardworking, would have sunk down to the level of a  _criminal_  was terrifying.

And not only that, but it seemed too easy. The word  _failure_  resurfaced in Airmid’s mind, and they pushed it back. No, they didn’t deserve this file. They didn’t work hard enough to deserve to know anything.

They wanted to keep chasing.

Success seemed grey, void of purpose. The fun had been in the journey, in the thrill of discovery.

But there were more physicians, and surely a set of criminal records could not contain everything about the previous one. Airmid brightened. More to chase, then.

“I thought you destroyed all evidence of the physicians ever existing, Godfather,” Airmid said. “How–“

“Not destroyed. Erased. One might even use the word ‘deleted',” Godfather Death smiled. “And as with computers, there’s always a trash bin somewhere.”

They opened their mouth to ask where in particular that metaphorical trash bin was, but the answer was so obvious. Godfather Death’s cave of candles, of course. Only Lanius knew the specific location, and those he brought there – the physicians, would not have lived long enough to tell anybody.

“I’m speechless.”

“Ah, but you just spoke.”

“Don’t give me that sass, Godfather, this is a weighty moment. I need to savour it.”

Godfather Death granted Airmid that moment.

It was only a brief five seconds – five seconds of Airmid just holding onto that file, not daring to open it, not daring to breathe, even.

Five seconds until Airmid Valerian dared to speak again.

“One question: why did you give me Asclepius’ criminal records? Why not something else? A journal? Letters? Recounts from friends? Newspaper articles?” Airmid shook their head in disbelief.

“Perhaps, once upon a time he had been a brilliant young man, ready to change the world. But he did something so heinous that I could do nothing but define him by his crime.” He tapped the file with a bony finger. “It’s all in there. Send me your thoughts."

“Define him by his crime…” that didn’t mean Asclepius saving the swan maiden instead of his destined princess, did it? It still followed the story, just in a different way outlined by the Storybook of Legends. As Airmid’s fingers curled around the edge of the folder, nervousness curled them up from inside. “How heinous?”

Godfather Death didn’t answer.

Silently, Airmid opened up the file, flickered through to the relevant pages. They read, still remaining silent, and softly closed the folder.

_“Oh.”_

“Yeah,” Godfather Death gave a nod that was a head shake at the same time.

* * *

The conversation inside continued for at least half an hour. Airmid gave up loitering outside.

Bastion would have to end up finding them outside in the squad, staring at the outskirts of BookEnd, fiddling with the edge of their shirt cuffs.

“It’s official,” Bastion said. “We found Gabriel at place at BookEnd to work – more simple clerk stuff, and a place to live – we’re splitting the expenses. He’ll take some courses at Ever After to establish his role as the next Ambassador Fanfarinet, but otherwise…”

He smiled. It was still pained, but better concealed.

“I’m free. From destiny, that is.” That smile was almost unnerving. “Enough about me. How was your talk with your godfather?"

* * *

Godfather Death hexcused himself almost immediately after the meeting, saying that he had been invited to an outing by a rather enthusiastic sprite, leaving Airmid alone with the file and their thoughts.

Still tucked in Airmid’s pocket was the letter, and in their bag, the journal.

The physician checked their watch – Bastion’s Scrollex. They tapped on the glass. When Bastion had the watch, it had been perfectly polished, not a speck of dust anywhere. Ever since it had fallen into Airmid’s possession, it never seemed to be kept to the same standards. Their fingerprints left an imprint on the screen. With a sigh, they swiped the face on their tweed jacket, and headed off.

Now aware they had about an hour to kill, Airmid Valerian headed off to the park. The fresh air was always inviting, and the surrounding nature reminded them that there was always something in the world worth fighting for.

But the trees just reminded Airmid of deforestation issues, and the weeds scattered in the grass of invasive species. They passed a lost cat poster, and their stomach tightened in sympathy for the poor person lacking their pet.

With enough wandering, the physician reached the campsite. There, a hole for a campfire was present. The fire had long been dead and suffocated, but there was just about enough wood and timber resting in the pit for a small fire that would last a few minutes.

On impulse, Airmid pulled that letter from their pocket, and the journal from their bag, and flung it in the pit.

Grimm damn them all, all those physicians! Grimm damn Asclepius Hemlock in particular, that liar, that deceit, the man who sullied the image of the physician destiny! Grimm damn Airmid Valerian himself, putting both the previous physicians and themself on a pedestal so high that the fall from involved terrified screams the whole way down.

From their other pocket, came the lighter. They raised it like a gun, bowed over, and lit the first edge of the letter.

As the paper crinkled, as the scent of smoke reached their nostrils, Airmid Valerian came to their senses.

In a swift panic, they pulled themself up, attempting to stamp out the flames. But instead they lost their balance, and tumbled into the pit. Luck meant they managed to suffocate the fire, probability meant that they ended up burning a hole in their tweed jacket.

Far from dignified.

But Airmid Valerian did not deserve to be dignified.

None of the physicians did.

Dejected, they pulled the letter and journal from the ashes, messily shook some soot out, and shoved them haphazardly into their bag.

This, whatever it was, was a problem best dealt with using a clearer mind.

* * *

 _Enlightening_  was a word on Airmid’s lips, but it never fell. Instead, they shrugged. “Lucid. No other word for it.”

“I won’t pry,” Bastion said, and didn’t.

For a while, the two stood in silence.

“Will you still be staying at school?” Airmid asked.

“I don’t know if I’ll finish my schooling here. There is honestly no point or place for me, anymore,” he laughed. “Perhaps I can risk it. A life with no plan."

That was a lie. He knew what he was to do – get an internship at the House of Adalinda. He was qualified for that, overqualified even, and on good enough terms with the Queens and their daughter. They would house him, give him a job, and keep him from the prying eyes of destiny.

Yet, he was willing to give up the stability of that.

There was something oddly thrilling in throwing caution to the wind, and himself into reckless abandon.

“Sounds adventurous,” grinned the physician.

“Acquire a leather jacket. Buy a motorbike. Escape to Switzerland and live a quaint life in the fields,” he continued, in a tone that clearly implied he was not serious. “Do you think you’ll be doing anything, dear Doctor Physician?"

“Being better than everybody else, probably,” they said, then winced at their own words. “I don’t know. I’m not certain of anything anymore. The only certainty in my life is uncertainty. Before, I thought I had embraced that, but– but–“

“You’re not sure?”

They sighed. “Precisely.”

“Seems like we both have quite the journey,” he gave a nod and his trademark elusive smile. “Godspeed, Airmid Valerian. You are, and will always be, the greatest physician to me.”

* * *

When cells are about to divide, the DNA duplicates itself to maintain the correct number of chromosomes in a cell. Here, the two strands of DNA separate–

–never to rejoin again.


End file.
